Lassiter: ChChChanges
by Loafer
Summary: COMPLETE. Lassiter makes some drastic changes after an epiphany, and a lot of those changes affect Juliet on a very personal level.  Lassiet!
1. Chapter 1: Grenovich

**Disclaimer**: all the usual _**psych**_ isn't mine stuff and no copyright thingamajiggy is intended.

**Rating**: T for now, M in later chapters for smut.

**Summary**: [Slightly AU; **Lassiet**; post-clock tower but well before Shules.]

I have watched many a TV show where one person's life is adversely and permanently skewed by the actions of others in the name of comedy (or drama) – think _Everybody Loves Raymond_: why the heck didn't the Barones just MOVE? – think _Two & A Half Men_: Alan was a trained chiropractor; come on, he HAD to live with his brother and put up with the treatment he got from brother, mother and maid? Stay with me now—yes, I hear you saying that they're sitcoms and if people behaved logically the shows would fold after three episodes. It's just that I can't help wondering every now and then what might become of an unhappy person's life if he or she simply… _**changed**_ it. That's where this story comes from.

More specifically, Lassiter makes some drastic changes after an epiphany. And it's just a story, folks.

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**CHAPTER ONE**

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**. . .**

Juliet was tired. It had been a long week, on multiple aggravating cases. She was already planning a bubble bath, and it wasn't even noon yet.

Inside the interrogation room, Lassiter sat with their chief suspect, Daniel Grenovich. Grenovich was leaning back, garrulous, having a great time pontificating about people and their motivations and how the world worked. She was surprised Lassiter hadn't pistol-whipped the guy by now, if only because Grenovich had a far brighter outlook on society than he did.

But Lassiter, when she took another look, was surprisingly relaxed. He seemed to be listening, letting Grenovich ramble; only occasionally would he tap his pen on the table or shift in the chair. Nice-looking man, she thought idly. One of those men who, feature by feature, wasn't perfect—slightly crooked nose, ears a little too big—but overall, quite attractive. The big blue eyes had a lot to do with it, and nothing topped a smiling Lassiter; the perfect image of a canny, charming Irishman. He was slim and strong, and she liked his lean hands, and suddenly it occurred to her that she was daydreaming about her partner (again), and pulled herself together with a start.

Grenovich was suspected of absconding with $47,013 dollars' worth of supplies from an Office Depot, mostly paper clips, bulldog clips and paper fasteners. It was a ridiculous crime, but it _was_ theft, and she and Lassiter were poking around trying to figure out if he was part of a larger resale ring as well as trying to get him to admit he'd done it.

He pointed his finger at Lassiter. "You're wasting time asking these questions, you know. Whether or not I stole anything is beside the point. The point is, what am I going to do about it?"

Lassiter tilted his head. "Excuse me?"

"Well, that's what life is, you know? Deciding what to do with the information you have? What am I going to do about the fact that you're accusing me?"

Lassiter said in a tone she knew all too well as menacing, "You're going to admit to the theft, be arrested, and face the consequences."

"That's one course of _action_. But how am I going to _handle_ it?"

"I honestly have no idea how you're going to handle it. I don't even care how you handle it, although I certainly hope you handle it in a way which doesn't cause me to reach for my weapon. I just want you to admit it."

"_If_ I did it, of course." Grenovich smiled lazily. "Here's where I'm coming from, Detective."

Lassiter flipped open the folder. "Ojai, it says here, with a few years in Summerland before taking the Office Depot job two years ago. That's where you're coming from. And yet I don't care. Don't want to try to _pretend_ to care. Just tell me—"

"I'm telling you!" He scooted his chair closer to the table. "Listen. We go through phases in our lives. First, we're whatever our parents tell us we are. Then we develop our own minds and personalities and think we're completely unique, though of course we're not, because we're really more like stupid sheep. You know what I'm talking about." He waited for Lassiter to nod, and Juliet was amused that he managed to do so without visible derision. "Then we get a little older, and especially if our upbringing was iffy, we start to understand that we are what we were _made_ to be. Who we are is a direct result of how we were raised, whether by the Cleavers, the Bundys, or hell, by wolves." He leaned across, staring at Lassiter intently. "Now here's the thing. Here's the most important thing, Detective." He stopped and stared at her partner closely.

After a second, Lassiter said "Yes?" in that same menacing tone. She wondered if he was thinking about his own upbringing.

Grenovich went on, almost triumphantly, "Once you know—once you _accept_—that you are the product of your upbringing, then your upbringing _can no longer be held responsible for what you_ _do_."

Juliet frowned; glancing at Lassiter, she saw him frowning too.

"You see?" Grenovich asked, as if it were obvious.

Lassiter said, "Wait..."

"No, no, it's so simple. Think it through. Think it through. Once you know _why_ you are what you are, you can no longer blame those who _made_ you what you are, and every decision, every action, every choice you make from then on is _all you_." He sat back in the chair, triumphant. "All you. You can't blame anyone in the past for what you do in the now. It's all you. So if you screw up, it's your fault. If you succeed, it's your credit. And if you keep doing all the things you think you're supposed to be doing even though you're only doing them because you think you have to, because those people in the past told you they would make you happy, and it turns out they don't make you happy, well, it's not _their_ fault anymore. It's _your_ fault. Because once you understand why you are what you are, it's only your fault if you keep on being someone you don't like."

Lassiter's expression was curious, and Juliet found that as interesting as the speech which had caused it. After a few more moments, which Grenovich smiling and nodding and waiting for the 'aha,' he said smoothly, "Do you like yourself, Grenovich?"

"I love myself!" He laughed. "I'm my favorite person!"

"So," Lassiter persisted, "you're okay with the choice you're making now, which according to your own philosophy is, if I may quote, _all you_?"

Grenovich's smile faltered. "Well..."

Juliet was laughing in the observation room. She loved Lassiter's "gotcha" smile.

"And you're okay with the consequences of _your_ choice? If you confess, we get on with things swiftly and you might not even do time—although you should—but if you're lying, then we keep pushing, things get uglier, they take longer, and you probably _will_ do time, because I promise I will personally petition the judge assigned to your case."

Grenovich stopped smiling completely.

"Of course you could be innocent. But then you'd be deliberately wasting our time, which makes cops like me cranky. My partner's a lot nicer than I am, but I assure you, you don't want to make either one of us cranky."

Grenovich sighed. "Oh, shiitake. Yeah, I took the crap. I have storage space over on Catalina in my mother's maiden name." He gave the address somewhat sullenly.

Lassiter made a note in the file. "Just out of curiosity, what were you planning to do with thousands of cases of paper clips?"

"Make dresses," he mumbled.

"What? No... don't answer. I don't need to know that." He got up, stretching his long legs. "I'll be back either in a minute or when hell freezes over."

He came through the door into the observation and high-fived Juliet. "You'll take it from here? Please?"

"Gladly," she assured him, "and not just because you said _please_ and that I was nicer than you."

"You _are_ nicer than me." He paused in the doorway, and turned back to give her a wry smile. "You're nicer than pretty much anyone I know, O'Hara."

She was still smiling when she went in to talk to Grenovich.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When Juliet got back upstairs, Grenovich processed and paperwork ready to be filed pending the confirmation of the location of the stolen supplies, Lassiter was at his desk, musing.

At least, she thought he was musing. He was seated and staring at his monitor, but there was a faraway look on his face.

She watched him from her own desk for a minute, a little worried. He'd been very dark lately. This session with Grenovich was the most even-tempered she'd seen him in a while. She hadn't been able to figure out what was bothering him, and of course asking was no good because the answer was always the same: "I'm fine, O'Hara." Sometimes he'd say thanks as well, but mostly he just said he was fine and then for a brief period he'd be better, but she suspected the 'better' part was an act for her benefit.

He was a puzzle, her partner, and she very much wished she could somehow ease his path.

As she watched, he suddenly got up from his desk, an expression on his face which she associated with just having figured out who the bad guy was. She quickly joined him. "I know that look," she said with a smile.

Lassiter glanced at her as if he didn't quite recognize her. "I don't think so. I don't think I could possibly ever have looked this way before, and I don't even know how I look." He stepped back from his desk, staring at it as if it were foreign and vaguely evil. "This—I don't know. I can't deal with this anymore."

"With what?" She peered at his desk and computer; everything looked all right to her.

"O'Hara," he said rapidly, a slight smile on his face, "I know what I have to do." He started away from the desk, then turned back and gestured to it again. "You can go through that. Anything you think I want, box up for me and I'll get it… I don't know when but I'll get it."

He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, and Juliet yanked on his arm when he started off again. "Carlton, wait! What are you talking about?"

Lassiter turned his vivid blue gaze on her, and his smile was broad now. "O'Hara, this is all good." He gently removed her hand from his arm, and strode toward Chief Vick's office.

Juliet hurried after him, because she was confused now and starting to feel alarmed. He tapped on Vick's door. "Chief," he said rapidly, "sorry to interrupt. A couple quick things."

Karen didn't seem to believe him; her body language suggested even one quick thing was too many and wouldn't be quick at all. "What is it?"

He handed her his badge. "First thing, here. I quit."

"You—_what_?" She stood up, shocked.

Juliet grabbed his arm again. "What? You can't quit. Why are you quitting?"

Lassiter grinned. "Actually, you're right. I have about a year's worth of leave, so really my last day will be sometime next May. We'll work it out. I gotta go." He turned to Juliet while Vick was still trying to form words, and grasped her upper arms firmly. "Second thing for you. Juliet, sweet beautiful Juliet, I love you. I've loved you for years. You've been the one light in my life for a damned long time, and I thank you very sincerely."

While she was staring at him, completely stunned, he leaned in and kissed her, kinda hard, kinda nice she thought dimly, and then pulled back again.

"Detective Lassiter!" Vick nearly shouted. "What the hell is going on?"

He was surprised. "You mean Mister. Mr. Lassiter. Oh, hang on; third thing." He removed his gun from its holster, put it on her desk, and then unhooked his shoulder holster to remove it altogether. "I won't be needing these. And I'll turn in my other guns. You can destroy them or sell them or… I don't know. Whatever you think best. Though that one's kinda sweet," he said, giving his beloved Glock one last look.

"Carlton," Vick tried again, coming around the desk as if that would help. "What is happening here?"

Juliet couldn't take her eyes off him. He was the most mesmerizing thing she'd ever seen, she had no idea what was going on, that kiss had been titillating, and his eyes were so blue right now they seemed to have absorbed all the other blue from the room.

"_I'm_ happening," he said simply. Then he swooped in and gave Vick a hug. "You've been a good chief for me, Karen. Thanks for your support over the years, even when it was reluctant." He turned while she was recovering, but Juliet put herself squarely in his path.

"You are not leaving here without some kind of explanation," she said firmly.

Lassiter looked down at her, smiling. Then he put his warm hands on either side of her face and kissed the hell out of her. Juliet completely forgot where and who she was, and just as her arms were snaking around his neck, he let her go. "Goodbye," he said briskly, patted his pockets for his car keys, and bounded out of the station.

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	2. Chapter 2: Epiphany Explained

**CHAPTER TWO**

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**. . .**

"Go," Vick had said tersely, and so Juliet was going, driving like a bat out of hell to Lassiter's place. He wasn't answering his phone (she called him at every light) and she was freaking out. She'd been too far behind to have his car in her sights, so it was only a guess that he was going home.

His Fusion wasn't there when she arrived. She ran up the steps anyway and pounded on his apartment door, but there was no answer, and the little old lady across the hall poked her head out to say "Stop that racket, young lady," and that she hadn't seen him since he left in the morning.

So where the hell was he?

Juliet called Vick to say she'd had no luck and considered asking to put an APB out on him, but knew it was ridiculous and kept quiet. Vick told her to keep looking, though, and that was something. Even Vick knew this was a very big weird event.

Shawn called while she was heading back to her car. "Jules!" he sang. "What's going on in the world of—"

"No time, Shawn, I'm looking for Lassiter. I don't suppose you've seen him? Or _sensed_ him?"

"Nope. What'd he do? Did he finally shoot someone in cold blood? We knew this day was coming," he tsked, and she hoped he was very surprised when she hung up on him.

She drove around for a while, trying to figure out where the hell he could be; Shawn texted her three times and called twice more but she couldn't talk to him. He would only make jokes and take shots at Lassiter and she wasn't in the mood.

Finally she realized she wasn't going back to work today; she called Vick and told her she was going to wait outside his place as long as it took, and Vick simply said, "Okay."

When she got there, he was just going up the steps, carrying a plastic bag. "Carlton!" she yelled, and he stopped.

"O'Hara! What are you doing here?" He continued up the steps inside the building, unlocking the door to his place and turning to face her fully. He looked… energized.

"What do you mean what am I doing here? What do you think I'm doing here? I'm here to find out what in God's name is going on!"

The little old lady opened her door to glare, and Lassiter took Juliet's arm to pull her inside. "Calm down. Everything's fine. I told you."

"You told me nothing!" She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, staring at him. She knew him. She knew him as much as he let himself be known, but this man, this blue-eyed man smiling at her, was a stranger.

"Relax," he said soothingly. "Just relax. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Everything's great, in fact." He put the plastic bag on the table, removing stacks of what looked like catalogs. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No. Thank you. No. What is all that stuff? Where have you been?"

"The university. Picked up some info for summer classes." He turned from her, humming, and went into the kitchen proper. "I'm having a glass of wine. Sure you don't want one?"

She followed him, watching—unseeing—as he reached up to pull glasses from the cabinet. "Carlton. Stop. Look at me."

He did so, and she studied his face, his eyes, his whole demeanor. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Look, please just tell me what happened to make you quit your job." _And tell me you loved me_, she added silently.

Lassiter smiled. "And tell you I loved you. Sorry. Didn't mean to lay that on you." He filled his glass with chilled sangria from the fridge, and after another look at her, poured a second glass, which he handed to her before striding back to the living room.

Juliet was floundering. She downed half the glass before following. "Is this how it's going to be? I'm just going to follow you from room to room until you talk to me?"

He sat on one end of the sofa and kicked off his shoes, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "O'Hara, you are a lovely and wonderful woman and I would normally be happy to have you follow me almost anywhere, but really, you don't have to worry about me. I feel…" He hesitated. "I feel the best I've felt in years."

"Are you having some sort of psychotic break?" she demanded. "Because I can dial 911 pretty damn fast if that's the case, and Vick can probably pull some strings to get you into a good facility."

Lassiter laughed. "That's kind of insulting. Just sit down already. You're making me nervous."

She polished off the sangria and set the glass down with a smack before obeying. "Talk."

"Grenovich," he said simply. "What he said. It was amazing. I listened to him and went back to my desk and suddenly everything was so clear."

"The man wanted to make fashion apparel out of bulldog clips! What the hell was clear about that?"

He laughed again, and she marveled at how… nice it was. He didn't seem insane. He _was_ insane, of course; he had to be—but he didn't _seem_ insane. "Not that. The stuff about how we blame our past for what's in our present. About how we make our own… destinies, if you will, and have only ourselves to blame when things go wrong."

"But that's not… that's not _new_ thinking. He was just regurgitating what a thousand self-help authors and psychologists have said already."

"Well, today he regurgitated on me, in a manner of speaking, and I was just exactly in the right frame of mind to hear it. These past few months—" He stopped, and for a second she saw the shadows which had stayed so close to him of late. "Let's just say I've been reflecting on a lot of things. Grenovich's speech brought it all to a head."

"I've been asking you what's wrong," she said quietly. "You put me off every time."

He shrugged. "It wasn't your problem to solve. Not that you wouldn't have tried," he said with a smile to her. "But I couldn't put it on you."

"Tell me now," she urged. "Please."

Lassiter sighed. "Look, you know I'm not the happiest guy in the world. Anyone who looks at my life will see it's about the job. I was raised to think I had to be the best, and that by being the best, I would be respected. All I had to do was _be the best_. Failure was not an option. Ever." He drank some of his sangria, twirling the glass afterwards, and looked full at her, his eyes clear. "But where am I? My father abandoned us. My mother's a… hell, I don't know what she is, but it's not warm and fuzzy, that's for damn sure. My brother was out of the house before I got to know him, and my sister's in another world entirely. She used to look up to me, but now she thinks I'm an idiot."

"She does not," Juliet protested.

"Yeah, she does. I'm not saying she doesn't love me, but she knows what I am."

"I know what you are, too, and 'idiot' is not the word!"

"Anyway," he went on pointedly, "I'm divorced from a woman I never should have married in the first place. I knew we weren't suited for each other. I knew her family hated me. But I had to prove them wrong. And when I figured out her main attraction to me was that her family _did_ hate me, I had to prove _her_ wrong, too. I held on as long as I could, O'Hara, long past the point of complete and total crapdom, but I resisted letting go because that would mean I'd failed. Again." The next slug of sangria was deeper.

"It's not a personal failure that a marriage doesn't work, Carlton." She touched his arm, and he smiled faintly.

"I even screwed up cheating on her during the separation, because it only took Spencer about three seconds to out us and there went that chance as well. Lucinda got transferred against her will, I was thought of as a philanderer, and there was another failure."

"No," she tried. "You're being too hard on yourself."

As if she hadn't spoken, he continued, "I had to be the best in the academy. I had to make detective as early as possible. Being named Head Detective as young as I was then—my God, that was such a coup—but where am I now? I'm a joke. The job eats up every hour of the day, and I let it, because it's not like there's anything else to fill the time. Then Spencer waltzes in and starts taking over—perfect, devil-may-care Spencer—and to make it worse, as soon as I go even one _second_ without a lead in a case, Vick speed-dials the man and he comes in and ass-clowns his way to an arrest." He jerked his head toward her. "You, too. No offense, but you're pretty quick to assume we can't do it on our own. You look at me like _I'm_ failing because we're stuck, and poof, there he is. And what can I do? He solves the damn cases. He jabs at me the whole time, making sure everyone knows what a loser I am, and everyone's okay with that, because why the hell not? It's gotta be true, right?"

"No! And I don't look at you that way. I don't feel that way. You're not a loser and neither am I. We're damn good cops and, okay, maybe we do call him in too soon but half the time he's there before we have a chance anyway, and you know how he is. He can't be stopped once he has his teeth into something."

"Doesn't matter. He's just part of the problem." He finished off the sangria. "The real problem is me. My choices. My life. My loser-ness, which is only my fault—"

She punched him in the arm, startling him considerably. "Stop saying that. And you're missing something kinda big about Shawn, you know. You're missing that for all the effort he makes to get under your skin, you're still the first person he calls when he's in trouble."

Lassiter frowned. "He calls you, too. And his father."

"Yes, he calls Henry, but when it's real trouble? When he's in over his head? It's you, Carlton. You're _his_ speed-dial, because he knows you're gonna save his ass. And what's so great about his life? He had fifty-seven jobs in ten years before coming up with Psych. He has a rocky relationship with his father, no significant relationships with women, and no ability to manage as an adult. If it weren't for Gus, I don't know how he'd cope."

"Plus there's that whole eating addiction," he mused, and she grinned despite her aggravation with him. "But seriously. He's only a symptom. I'm the problem, and today, listening to Grenovich, I figured out the solution."

"Hang on. I was listening to that conversation too, you know, and I never once heard him tell you to quit your job and your life's work."

He said slowly, "No, but the thing is, I think maybe I've been doing the wrong work."

"No. This is the work you were _made_ for, Carlton. I don't see how you can—"

"This is the work I _chose_," he corrected her, "because I thought being a cop was the best possible way to succeed, to achieve respect, to be the best. To not _fail_. I just didn't figure on reality." He got up and went to the kitchen, retrieving the sangria and returning to fill her glass and his. "I'm sick to death of…" he trailed off, and then gestured to the apartment, to the photos of most-wanted criminals on the west wall. "Of me. Of this 24/7 saturation in a war I can't win, can't contain, and don't even enjoy anymore. I'm sick of the reality I created for myself, and Grenovich made that all seem so clear."

"I'm going to punch that son of a bitch right in the nose," she said grimly.

Lassiter laughed. "Go for it. He has it coming anyway. Dresses? Really?"

"Chain-mail type," she explained. "He's quite the seller of clip-based clothing on eBay." She got up and approached him. "I am so sorry you've lost sight of who you are and what you mean to people."

"I haven't lost sight of anything: I've gained it. And what people?" he challenged. "I have no friends, O'Hara. I have colleagues, some guys I knew twenty years ago in college. No one gives a damn about me outside of the job."

Later she couldn't believe she'd even tried; her hand flew up to slap him—but Lassiter clamped onto her forearm before she made contact.

"What the hell was that going to be for?" he asked tightly, still gripping her arm.

"_I _give a damn, you ass. _I _give a damn." She felt tears burning, and wrenched away from him, but he caught her and pulled her close to him again. "How dare you say that? What am I to you if you lump me with everyone else?"

"You know what you are to me," he said quietly. "But it doesn't matter."

"What, I'm supposed to forget what you said today? That doesn't _matter_?"

"It doesn't _have_ to matter. I'm not asking for anything. I just wanted to tell you before I left."

"That _anyone_ loves me matters, Carlton. That _you_ love me matters even more. You're incredibly important in my life; don't you know that?"

For a moment, his blue eyes showed pain, but then they cleared. "We're partners. And you're a lovely, caring person. But you owe me nothing and I shouldn't have said it. I wasn't trying to screw with your head. I'm sorry."

Juliet let out a slightly shuddery breath. "Please don't say that again. Don't tell me you're sorry for telling me how you _feel_."

"It's not like that," he said softly. "Juliet. I just thought—if you could say I thought at all—that I was walking out for good and it would be okay to tell you. I got caught up in my own drama. But telling someone you love her when you know she doesn't feel the same way is an unfair burden, and I—"

"It's not a burden to be given someone's heart," she protested.

"I… I didn't _give_ you my heart," he said, his voice so gentle. "I only showed you I have one."

She couldn't help it, then; she was so upset and confused and all she knew was that he must not remain this _removed_ from her even though his hands were still grasping her arms. She pressed herself to him and kissed him, and that was real; his warm mouth was real, the way he kissed her back was real, and it was Lassiter, and it was right, and she felt that it was right until the very second he set her away from him and stood with his hand to his mouth, staring at her with an absolutely inscrutable expression.

She wouldn't apologize, though she knew she should. "What are you going to do? If you're really quitting. What are you going to do?"

It took him a few moments to answer, and she couldn't tell if he was angry with her or not. "I'm going to do a lot of things I never had time for. First I'm going to take a tour of Civil War battleground sites. I want to stand where those men stood to fight for their causes." He returned to the sofa and picked up his glass of wine. "Then I'm going to go back to school. I don't know what for yet but I'd love a history degree. Maybe get into historical military research. Or forensics. I'm fascinated by that; always have been. I don't much like people and God knows people don't like me, so some kind of lab work might be just the ticket." He drank, and Juliet sank into the nearest chair, her legs unsteady.

"Carlton."

"O'Hara?" he drawled.

She didn't know how to ask the one question she had left in her. "Are you… are you shutting me out of your life?"

He seemed surprised. "No, but why would you want to be in it? It's not like you'll have any time anyway. Vick should promote you, for one thing."

"I'm sorry—did you just actually ask me why I'd want to be in your life?" She felt fury. "You can't possibly think that was a rational question. You have been my partner for nearly five years."

"That wasn't your choice," he said without hesitation. "You were assigned to me."

"No. I _asked_ for you."

Lassiter said in disbelief, "You didn't even know me. Junior detectives don't get to choose their first partners."

"I did. I was supposed to be assigned to Ben Pappas but I heard about you. I heard you were tough and cranky and hard to please but that you did damn good work and you'd make me into the best detective I could be. I asked Vick if I could be partnered with you instead."

"And she agreed? Why the hell would she agree to that?"

"Because I told her what I just said to you. I wanted to be with the best, and if I was going to learn anything it needed to be from you. I know I looked like some kind of bubblehead, too young, too blonde, and too perky. I knew anyone else would either coddle me or kick me to the curb, but by God, if I could get Head Detective Carlton Lassiter to accept me, then I was set." She smiled triumphantly, seeing his genuine surprise. "You're not the only one who hates to fail."

His smile was slow, but honest, and she felt an only _slightly_ unfamiliar curl of desire to go sit in his lap and kiss him senseless. She'd felt that desire for him before over the years, but had always suppressed it, for all the right reasons professionally. Now she wondered whether she'd been an overly-cautious fool.

"Look," she went on earnestly, "You have been my closest friend, my closest real friend, for years. You know me better than anyone else. You have to trust that I know you better than anyone else knows you, and I value you. Yes, I want to be in your life. Why the hell would you think otherwise? I don't understand what's in your head right now and I don't know if it's the right thing for you to do but if you're really going to do it, if you're really going to leave me high and dry, then you owe me."

"Do I?" Lassiter was still smiling. "And how exactly do I repay what I owe?"

She thought fast. "Lunch, whenever I call you, and you can't say no unless you're in class. Dinner at least once a week. And I'll think of other stuff along the way."

"I'm sure you will." It was a grin now. "You're demanding."

"Yes. I am. And I'll tell you something else. I'm going to ask Vick to record you as having taken a leave of absence, not quitting."

"That's really not a good idea."

"Carlton, you don't know how you're going to feel about any of this tomorrow, let alone six weeks from now. A leave of absence protects you in case you decide you want the job back. I know Vick doesn't want to lose you. She was all for me coming after you today."

He looked down into his glass, swirling the sangria gently. "I appreciate you wanting to do that. I'm sorry to have suggested you weren't my friend. But you have to give me room to do this right now. It's the first time I ever did anything simply because it felt right _for me_." He smiled at her now. "Apart from kissing you this afternoon."

Despite herself, she blushed. "Yeah, well, I'm glad you liked it. Next time I hope to be more prepared."

"Next time," he echoed.

"Next time." She felt breathless.

Lassiter looked over at her, and why did his eyes have be so compelling? "A minute ago you told me I didn't know how I would feel about any of this tomorrow. Maybe you should take that warning to heart for yourself."

Maybe she should. She got up, still feeling surreal, and smoothed her skirt. "All right. I'm going to leave now. But I'm calling you tomorrow if you don't call me, so you'd better call me."

"You'll be working," he reminded her. "You shouldn't take personal calls." He rose and came closer. "I'll take you to dinner. Tomorrow night if you're free."

"I'm free. And I'll call you." She looked up at him, and that curl of desire was back. Maybe it wasn't unfamiliar at all.

He enclosed her into a hug, his arms tight around her, and she closed her eyes against his chest, sighing. "Thanks."

"For what?" She spoke it to his shirt, holding him just as tightly, hearing his heartbeat.

"For being you, and for caring about me." He tilted her head up, his fingertips warm on her jaw, and smiled. "Now get out of here before I throw you out."

She was shocked by how much she didn't want to leave. But he was right, and she left him without further protest.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Adjusting

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Shawn finally had enough of Juliet dodging his calls after the third day, and put himself in front of her desk Friday afternoon, Gus at his heels. "Jules. You know you can't hide from me. I'm psychic, remember?"

She looked up from her screen. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm really busy, Shawn. Did you need something?"

"Uh, yeah. I need a case. I need some answers. I also need a back rub and an order of chili cheese sweet potato fries, but Gus won't help me on the former and Ole Ole's took the fries off their menu. I should report them to the Better Business Bureau." He looked at Gus reproachfully; Gus rolled his eyes.

"So do that," she said, scrolling through the data.

He bent over her monitor, forcing her to back up. "Jules."

"Shawn, I don't have a case for you. Talk to Vick. Maybe another detective needs your help."

She might as well have said he should eat dirt, judging by his expression. "My God, you just turned into Lassiter with that crazy talk." He looked over his shoulder. "Where _is_ Lassie-face? What are you guys working on?"

"Carlton," she said carefully, "is on an extended leave of absence."

Shawn laughed. "Yeah, right. No really, where is he?"

"And I," she continued, "am very busy finishing up some of our active cases before a new partner is assigned to me. So if you don't mind—"

Gus interrupted. "Is he okay? Lassiter taking time off is unusual enough but an _extended_ leave?"

Shawn interrupted that interruption. "How extended? A week? Two?"

To Gus, she said, "He's fine." To Shawn, she said, "He doesn't know yet. It might be permanent."

Shawn stepped back in exaggerated shock, but she could tell he was genuinely surprised. "Permanent?"

Gus persisted, "He can't be fine. There's no way. What's wrong?"

"What did he do?" Shawn demanded. "Do I need to clear his name again? Is that the case you're busy with? Damn, I wish I hadn't lost my police scanner."

She shook her head. "Look at that. Gus is worried about him as a person, but you assume he just screwed up somehow."

"Gus isn't worried," he said dismissively.

"Why wouldn't I be worried? For your information, I _respect_ Detective Lassiter, and appreciate all the times he saved our butts. If he's sick, I'm concerned."

"Thank you, Gus. He really is fine."

"Well, I could be worried, too, but mostly I want to know where he is right now so I can go, you know, _read_ him. This isn't some practical joke is it? It's too late for April Fool's. Gus, did I forget to change the calendar again? Jules!" he said more sharply, leaning in close again. "Of course I assume he screwed up, or _thinks_ he screwed up. He's got that code of honor thing going on, ten times more than anyone else I've ever known. He doesn't take vacations, and you say he's not sick, so if he's gone, he screwed up somehow. Tell me what he did, and I'll fix it."

"That's very nice of you, Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick said smoothly, coming up alongside them. "But Detective Lassiter didn't screw anything up, and you can't fix it."

"Oh, come on," he cajoled. "He must have done something."

She tilted her head, and Juliet felt the chill before Shawn did. "Lassiter is just about the best detective I have, Mr. Spencer, and he doesn't _screw up_. Now would you gentlemen please remove yourself from the police station until such time as we require your services?"

He met her gaze and must have decided not to test her. "Jules," he said without looking away from Vick, "call me later. Please."

"Fine, Shawn." She didn't want to, but she would.

"We'll be going to see Lassie now," he added semi-defiantly to Vick, who shrugged and pointed toward the exit.

"You'll be doing that on your own," Gus muttered, but they did leave.

After Vick left her desk as well, Juliet called Lassiter. He hadn't dodged any of her calls the past few days, and he didn't dodge this one either.

"O'Hara," he said warmly into the phone. "This is getting to be a habit."

They'd had dinner two nights ago, a surprisingly pleasant evening together; he'd talked about the courses he was interested in taking and got her to update him on her family back home, and whether or not he really wanted to know or was just trying to keep them both away from more personal and problematic topics didn't matter. She'd been glad to be with him. "I know. I'd apologize but you'd know I was lying. I just wanted to give you a heads up that Shawn is planning to come see you."

"Well, that'll be nice." His tone was so matter-of-fact that for a second she believed he was serious until he laughed. "What's he want?"

"He and Gus just came by the station and found out you were gone."

"Huh. Spencer didn't 'divine' it already?"

"I've been avoiding talking to him. I didn't want him to… to go all Shawn on me."

That made him laugh again. "Thanks. He won't find me today, I don't think. I'm just about to register for summer classes."

"You sound like a different man," she said suddenly. "You sound so relaxed."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's good." She felt warm. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

He hesitated. "You want to have dinner with _me_ on what is traditionally known as date night?"

"Yes, I want to have dinner with _you_. You're not off-limits anymore." She couldn't believe she'd said it.

Lassiter let out a breath. "Wow. Be careful, O'Hara."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm not sorry. But I'm sorry. So is it yes or no? You can tell me what classes you finally chose."

"Okay. Yes. I'll pick you up at your place. 7:30?"

"Yes," she said, and felt ridiculously happy after they'd disconnected.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She left work earlier than usual, about five, because she wanted to do stupidly girly stuff like look nice for her date, and she knew she had to call Shawn before that.

But when she got home, he was lounging on her porch. "I _sensed_ you'd be home early," he said confidently.

"Or you called the station for me, found out I was gone, and rushed over here?" She had stopped for gas, which would have given him a few extra minutes.

"Or I called the station for you, found out you were gone, and rushed over here, yes, but that's not important now. I've been looking for Lassie all day. He's not taking my calls, yes I see you smirking, and aren't you going to invite me inside?"

"Shawn," she said patiently, sitting in the rocker next to him. "I have no control over what calls Carlton takes, I'm sorry about the smirk, and I am not going to invite you inside."

"Why didn't you tell me this was happening?"

"Why do you care? You don't like him. Didn't your life just get easier?"

"I like him. How can you think I don't like Lassie? _He_ doesn't like _me_." He seemed wounded, but she knew better.

"That's because you go out of your way to bug the crap out of him."

"But that's our way! It's our deal! It's how we men _relate_, Jules."

"Well, whatever. The thing is, this was sudden. He only decided on Tuesday, and a lot of stuff is still up in the air. I couldn't really tell you about it because I didn't really understand it myself, and anyway it's his business."

Shawn was eyeing her suspiciously. "You seem awfully calm about this."

She smiled. "It's not like he's dead. I wish him all the best."

"But you just lost your partner. That's not supposed to be an easy thing, unless you're _glad_ he's gone."

She stopped smiling. "It's _not_ easy, and I'm _not_ glad. And I lost my partner—but not my friend."

"Friend," he repeated, but didn't let her respond. "So what prompted this life-changing decision on his part?"

"I don't think it was any one thing," she said slowly. "And if he wants you to know, he'll tell you."

"Jules, you insult me. I find out things whether people want me to know or not. I'm psychic, remember?"

"So I hear," she said, and got up. "I have to go now. By which I mean, you have to go."

"Yeah, I see that. You have a date tonight."

She knew him well enough to know he might just be fishing. "Do I?"

"Home early, don't want me inside, trying to rush me off. Who is he? Anyone I know? It's not Luntz again, is it?"

"No, Shawn. Now go away. I'm sure Gus is lost and lonely without you." She let herself in, giving him a 'just give it up' smile, and deadbolted the door behind him.

Just to be on the safe side, however, she called Lassiter and asked him to come down the alley behind the house to pick her up in case Shawn was lurking to see who her date was.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter was wearing a blue shirt which made the blue of his eyes all the more dramatic, and Juliet was wondering how she had resisted him for so long. _He was your partner_, she reminded herself; _partners don't get involved_. But… _maybe they should have_.

"You look beautiful," he said simply. "But then you always do."

"Sounds like criticism," she teased. "Thanks anyway."

He shrugged. "You can't help it."

She felt unduly warm as she laughed, and rather than go all mushy, she asked, "So you're registered for classes?"

"Yep. History for now. I need to do more research on forensic studies. I'd rather not go for an online degree but most of the other schools I've found would require me to move."

"Oh, please don't move." The words were out before she could stop them, but then, they were true.

He looked at her, smiling. "I don't want to move. My whole life's been here, though maybe that's the problem."

"What would Grenovich say?" It was a semi-serious question.

"He'd probably say I should question whether the reason I want to stay is only that I'm _afraid_ to leave. But truth is, I don't have any desire to live anywhere else."

"Good." She was relieved.

"Though tomorrow I'm going to Virginia."

"_What_?" She heard her own anxiety.

Lassiter reached out and touched her hand briefly. "Relax. It's my Civil War trip."

"How long will you be away?"

"Three weeks. I'll be back in time for classes, which start mid-June. I'm going to fly out to Gettysburg and rent a car. Figure I'll criss-cross Virginia for the most part, but I want to see Antietam too. I'm going to play it by ear." He grinned. "And as you know, I have bodacious ears."

"Stop," she said crossly. "I don't understand how playing anything 'by ear' fits you. You've been away from the job for four days now and haven't even shown any interest in the cases you walked away from. And you gave Vick your gun—I still can't believe that."

"Oh, that reminds me; the other guns are in a box in my trunk. Would you take them in for me?"

She stared at him. "Seriously? You're giving up all your guns?"

"I'm keeping one," he admitted. "But no sane person needs eight, and I'd like to start being sane." He sipped his wine. "And I'm sorry for leaving you in the lurch. I was thinking about the Monahan case; did you check the chauffeur's history?"

"Yes, and he's been popped for drugs so we're taking a closer look."

"See?" He smiled. "You don't need me."

"The hell I don't. And really, Carlton, how is this easy for you? When Drimmer framed you and you couldn't work, you practically fell into a depression. When Salamatchia was after you and Vick put you under guard, you were climbing the walls. How can you be so relaxed now?"

"Juliet," he said, and she wasn't sure if it was a good thing that her name sounded so intimate when he said it, "I had nothing else then. Nothing. There was only work, and when there was no work, there was no… _me_."

"But you had other interests. The gun range, ballistics, new weapons—"

"Work-related, all of it. My life consisted of working and trying to get Victoria back. When the latter failed, there was only work. Now I have plans. I have goals. And most importantly, I have the time and the means to reach those goals."

She sighed. "I feel like Meg Ryan in _Joe_ _Versus The Volcano_."

"Which one?"

"The first one. The little mousy office girl who was blown away when Tom Hanks went crazy on their boss and quit his job."

"Nothing mousy about you," he said with a smile.

She felt herself warming, but pressed on, "Do _you_ have a brain cloud? I'm serious. Are you sure you're not having some kind of psychotic break?"

"O'Hara," he laughed. "Would you feel better if I went to see a shrink?"

"I might. Actually, yes. I might."

"Because you think I'm making a mistake. But honestly, what about my life should I go back to?"

It was out before she could stop it: "Me." _Oh, Juliet, you idiot_…

Lassiter's smile was slow and unnervingly sexy, whether he meant it that way or not. "Aren't you still in it?"

She was mute, embarrassed and blushing like a little girl.

"Aren't you... _dating_ me right now?"

"Carlton," she whispered.

The waiter, ever timely, arrived with their dinners, and Lassiter waited until they were alone again to speak. "I've been thinking about our conversation the other night at my place. I know I shook your world up by quitting, and it's natural to want to cling to the familiar because the future is a big unknown. Half the time I'm terrified too." He gazed at her, and Juliet's heart was pounding. "But if you're my _friend_, and you know how I feel about you, then you can't…" He hesitated. "You have to take care. You have to take time to figure out whether it's just the familiar you want, or the chance for something new. And I can't… I won't let myself be…"

He stopped, and she understood. He was saying _don't hurt me while you figure this out_. She closed her eyes briefly, sighing. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be getting in the way of your… transformation. Please don't think I would ever knowingly do anything to—"

"I know. Look, I wouldn't mind if you called me while I'm away, or let me call you. I'd like to—"

"Yes," she said at once, her heart pounding again. "Please do. Send me pictures too. I'd really like that."

Lassiter smiled at her, and his eyes seemed brighter. "I will. Thanks."

She should have been thanking him.

After dinner they went out and strolled along the boardwalk. Cool breeze, lights on the water; he bought them both gelatos and they found an empty bench to sit on. "I'm going to miss you," she said softly. "I'm going to end up calling you every day."

He put his arm along the back of the bench, almost touching her shoulders. "I hope you do. I like the sound of your voice."

It was a sweeter compliment than he could ever know; he must have felt she'd talked his ear off over the years. She turned to look at him in profile. He was gazing out at the sea, half-smiling, and she knew he was right to ask her to be careful with his heart, but more than anything, she knew these feelings she had for him weren't new. They'd just been simmering quietly on the back burner, little longings wafting up from time to time which dispersed in the light of day.

But was he more important to her simply because now he could be, or only because he had broken free of his personal chains? Was the pot still simmering, or was it about to boil over?

She reached out to touch him, and he turned.

Without another word, he kissed her, warm hand cupping her face as his other arm curved around her back. His mouth was so sure, so hungry, and she drank him in, tasting his need and matching it with her own. The feel of his tongue against hers, the sound of his breathing as he pulled her even closer, the taste of his _love_—Juliet's heart was about to burst out of her chest. "Oh, my God," he breathed roughly, and she mutely echoed that sentiment. He stroked her hair, his gaze locked to hers. "You could kill a man."

"Not if you kill me first," she murmured, her eyes on his mouth. "And you might."

Lassiter half-groaned, and lowered his head again. This time he licked her lips, nibbling at them, his fingers trailing through her hair while hers wandered his throat and down to where his shirt opened and she could slip her hand inside to touch him. But it was only moments before they were kissing deeply again, mouths locked in delicious battle, and Juliet was sure she was on fire, actual fire, head-to-toe fire, consuming her and everything else in its path.

Just from kissing Carlton Lassiter.

He dragged himself away from her abruptly and stood up, walking away from the bench to the stone wall, breathing hard. She could see his hands clenching against the concrete.

She was complicating things for him. He hadn't planned on her reaction to his spontaneous break from the real world. He had been so sure he stood alone that he'd underestimated—no, discounted entirely—his role in her life. Of course he thought she was mixed up. But after a kiss like that, after how she felt before, during and now after, Juliet knew she was anything but that.

And she knew she couldn't press him on it. She had to… let him go. For a while, anyway. Off to Virginia, for starters. He needed his chance to fly; it was not for her to clip his wings.

She smoothed her hair and touched her lips, feeling they were swollen but not minding.

When he turned around to look at her, she said, "It's okay. You can take me home. Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?"

He shook his head, and thanked her for the offer. He held out his hand and she took it, and they walked back to the car. At her house, he came up to the porch to hand off the locked box of guns, promised to call her when he got to Gettysburg, and kissed her cheek before he left.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4: Lassie Comes Home

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Rating: M! ** Yeah, you can take it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Sorry it didn't work out," Shawn said, plopping down into the chair across from Juliet's desk.

"Sorry what didn't work out?" She pulled her fries away from his reach.

"Your date."

"My date? You mean from a week and a half ago?"

"That's the one."

"How do you know it didn't work out?" She pulled the rest of the sandwich away from his reach as well, and he sat back, thwarted.

"Because it was only the one date. What happened? He turned out to be too fussy? Too clingy? Too macho? Too effeminate? Too warbly-voiced? Too tall? Too short? Too many toes?"

"And how do you know I haven't been on other dates? Have you been stalking me?"

"Yes, of course. Well, not exactly. I just check in of an evening and know you've been home. It's no big deal. Your place is on my way to my dad's if I make six extra turns and go the wrong way on Devonshire."

"Shawn, go away." She was so glad she'd asked Lassiter to pick her up at the back of her house that night, and even more glad Shawn hadn't been 'on his way' by when he got her home again via the front door.

"What? Look, I'm just being a friend. And seriously? What is up with Lassie? I couldn't get into his place so he must have changed the locks again. But I don't think he's there, and I haven't seen his car around."

"Shawn! You are unbelievably invasive!"

"Thank you!" He preened.

Juliet was exasperated, more so than usual. "I can't talk to you right now. Lincoln is going to be back soon and we have to go talk to a witness."

"Lincoln? Damn, reincarnation? Wait, I did see him in that Geico commercial. He looks good."

"No, my new _partner_. Greg Lincoln. And leave Lassiter's place and stuff and life alone, you hear me? He's out of town."

"Really? Where'd he go? Roswell?"

Juliet frowned at him. "You are a very strange person."

"No, wait, Roswell's for aliens. Where's a good robot town?"

_Pause for breath, Juliet. Pause_. _It would not be a good idea to tell him_ _Carlton is way too… mmmm mmm MMMMmmm…. to be a robot_. "Shawn, I mean it. Stop screwing around with things that don't concern you."

She knew what he was going to say. He was going to say _everything_ concerned him, and then she was going to dump her soda on his head. Fortunately, Greg Lincoln appeared to inadvertently save Shawn from this fate. "Hey. This must be the psychic." He stuck his hand out and Shawn took it reluctantly. "Lincoln. New kid."

Shawn grinned. "Oh, but I already knew that, because I _am_ the psychic."

Lincoln was compact, not much taller than Juliet; his hair had a tinge of red and he was a direct fellow. She liked him okay and so far their partnership had been uneventful, but fair or not, he was no Lassiter, and she only hoped he never had reason to think he was being held up to an unreasonable benchmark.

She let Shawn put on a show for Lincoln while her mind wandered back to Lassiter. They'd talked every night since he'd gone. He was enthralled with the landmarks he was seeing, caught up in the sense of history and place and country. When he spoke of what he saw and how he felt she could see him, eyes alight, animation in his every word.

Maybe she should tell Shawn she _had_ been on dates since that Friday… dates spent curled up on her sofa, talking with Carlton on the phone, enjoying his voice and that they were close enough now, even separated by the entire country, for him to share his experiences with her. They didn't speak of anything intimate, of emotions or feelings or even what happened on the boardwalk that night, but it was intimate all the same. She knew he was lying on a hotel bed, relaxed, trusting her, and he knew she would be there when he called.

Still another week and a half to go, she thought. She couldn't wait to see him again—they had never been apart this long. She was starting to crave him, actually, and this made her nervous in a curl-of-desire way.

Lincoln had the guts to break into Shawn's performance with an apologetic, "Sorry, we really have to go now," and she was grateful. Shawn gave a longing look to the rest of her lunch and she rolled her eyes and let him take it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

At the courthouse the next day, Juliet was waiting to testify in a chop-shop case when she spotted Daniel Grenovich being led into a room off the main hall. It must be his day in court, she realized, and no way was she passing up the chance to speak to him.

The bailiff outside the door thought otherwise until Grenovich's public defender came out. "Excuse me," she said with authority. "I'm Detective O'Hara and I need a word with your client."

"I know who you are," he said, "and your work here is done. He pled out, and this is just his sentencing."

"Just two minutes. It's not about the case."

He was suspicious. "You have some other connection to Mr. Grenovich?"

"It's complicated. I want to ask him something about an unrelated matter. You can stay in the room."

He wasn't interested. "No, be my guest. Bailiff, listen for screams, would ya? I'll be right back." He headed down the hall, and the guard let her into the holding room.

Grenovich looked up and seemed to need a minute to remember her. "Oh, it's Detective O'Something or other! I could have made you the loveliest chain-mail vest. Perfect for bringing in perps with flair."

"No, thanks." She pulled up a chair at the table across from him. "Though I looked at your eBay listings. Nice work with stolen property."

"Thank you, my dear. What brings you to this moment of my final humiliation?"

How to put this? "You remember the conversation you had with my partner, Detective Lassiter? All that stuff about accepting where you came from but not letting it control you?"

"Certainly. He turned it against me quite nicely."

"Did you know he quit his job because of that conversation?"

Grenovich's eyes grew wide. "Did he now?"

"He walked away from his career because of you," she said. "He gave up everything he'd ever worked for because of what you said to him."

"Fascinating. Mostly people agree with the philosophy but never do anything about it. I wonder if—"

"Mr. Grenovich," she said tightly, "he was my partner. Your long-winded ramblings cost me my _partner_."

He stared at her, curious. "I'm sorry you feel that way but how am _I_ responsible for the choice he made?"

"You—"

"Words, Detective. They fall where they may and take root only in a select few who are not only able to hear them but willing to _act_ on them."

"What if it doesn't last? What if he finds out he made these huge changes based on the words you threw at him, and he ends up regretting it all?"

"Are you really asking about him, or about yourself? I presume your life changed too. Are you angry with _me_ about that?"

She needed someone to blame. It was true.

Grenovich persisted, "How is he doing? Is he happy? Or at least happier?"

She still wanted to punch him in the nose. "For now, he is. For now. But I don't want to see it all come crashing down around him."

"Does his happiness not please you?"

At those words, she stopped. Too much needed to be said, and not to him. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Grenovich." She left the room while he was still calling after her.

Lassiter _was_ happier, and even if it was temporary, it was _good_.

His choice had brought them closer; it had changed their relationship in a way which she could only describe as positive, and hopeful, and long overdue. She was happier, too. She missed him like crazy and even now her fingers were itching to get out her phone and call him, just to see where he was, know what he was doing, to hear him. She couldn't have had that if he hadn't made his choice. And she wouldn't regret what had passed between them if this all came to an end.

Damn Grenovich. Unthinking, babbling man. Had to be right, didn't he. Just had to be right.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Just a few more days until Lassiter came home. Juliet was planning her evenings around their phone conversations, and this startled her until she reminded herself they'd spent hours of every day together for years, much of it alone together, and not all of their talk was about work. It was natural to miss that contact.

When he called on Wednesday night, she took the phone up to her bedroom and lay on the quilt, imagining him lying beside her, warm and close. "How are you?"

"Tired. I like what I've seen, but I'm tired of the driving. I'm ready to come home."

"I'm ready for you to be here," she admitted.

Lassiter sighed. "I'm ready to see _you_ again, and sorry, I shouldn't say that."

"Why not? I'm willing to say it to you. Plus it's true."

"Well, thanks."

She sensed she should change the subject. "Did you take your gun with you? You kept one, right?"

"Yep. A man's first Glock is always a part of him," he said, and she could tell he was smiling. "But it's locked up in Santa Barbara. I figured I could make it a few weeks."

"And how's that going?" The idea of Lassiter sans gun was still unfamiliar.

"Not bad. It's odd how much I _don't_ miss having that thing strapped to me. It's like every morning I put it on with my clothes, and I never knew how heavy it was. I don't mean physically heavy. I mean... a weight in my mind. I think it went along with the whole image I was trying to live up to: must be cop, must have gun, must be prepared, must not fail." He added abruptly, "Juliet, how do you get me to tell you this stuff?"

She laughed. "I'm just asking questions and listening to your answers. I always did that, didn't I? Though you didn't always answer the questions."

"Of course not. You might have spotted a weakness, and you were definitely one of the people I couldn't fail."

She was surprised. "Me? But I was just the junior partner."

"Just," he repeated with derision. "I felt twice as much pressure—from _me_, not you—to not fail in your eyes."

"But why? Did I do something to make you—"

"No, no. It was... God, I don't know why you listen to this crap."

"It's not crap, and I would listen to just about anything you wanted to tell me."

"Not true," he challenged. "I got the eyeroll many times over the years."

"Oh, come on. Like you didn't roll your eyes at me? I kept coming to work, didn't I?"

He laughed then. "Yeah, somehow you did that. I can't tell you how many times that first year I expected Vick to call me in and tell me you were requesting a new partner."

"Carlton, that would _never_ have happened. Ever." She felt rather fierce about it.

After a pause he asked, "How's the new one, then? What's his name? Lincoln?"

"Yeah. He's okay. I mean, he's steady. I think it'll work out, but he's nothing like you."

"Most people would consider that a plus," he said dryly.

"I don't."

"O'Hara..."

"_Lassiter_. You know you always call me O'Hara when you think I'm getting too... I don't know. Close?"

"Which should explain why I called you O'Hara from day one."

"Are you saying," she teased, "that I was getting to you that early?"

"Of course. My God, you were this sweet, beautiful young woman who dared to challenge me—and I _am_ human, contrary to popular belief."

"Even if I didn't know that, you've more than proved it in the past few weeks." She savored the intimate quality of his voice as he called her beautiful.

He sighed. "I've said more to you about... me ... than I ever have to anyone else. How do you do that? And why?"

Juliet felt a little trembly. "I care about you, Carlton. I always have. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you trust me. That you feel you _can_ tell me anything. Anything at _all_."

He was quiet for a bit. "I want to," he said slowly. "That's the damnedest thing. I want to. I feel... like I'm at a disadvantage because our feelings aren't really on the same page, but I also feel like you're… getting… closer and I don't want that to be my imagination."

She was pretty sure they were already on the same page, but knew he would need to draw that conclusion for himself, and anyway, it was too soon. "It's not your imagination."

"Good," he almost whispered.

Juliet went on in a rush, "I miss you. I miss you so much. I can't wait for you to be home again. We've never gone this long before without seeing each other, do you know that?"

He sounded wry. "Believe me, I am painfully aware of how long it's been since I got to look into your lovely blue eyes."

The words made her feel breathless. "I could say the same about you, you know."

"But would you use the word lovely?"

"Hmmm... beautiful. Vivid. Amazing. Incredible. Compelling. Irresistible. Less frou-frou words because you're, you know, _macho_."

He laughed. "Thank you. And thank you, by the way."

"You're very welcome, and what for?"

"Juliet," he said huskily, "you're tempting me in ways you can't imagine."

She couldn't help saying, "Oh, I can imagine a lot. Especially now that I know what a great kisser you are."

Lassiter cleared his throat. "Great, now I'm imagining things I wasn't even imagining a few minutes ago."

They laughed together, and she felt warm—and titillated—but still wished fervently for him to be home.

Soon. Soon he would be here. She knew she had promised herself to back off and give him space but hearing his voice like this every night kinda threw all that out the window. _Just_ _don't screw it up, O'Hara_, she warned herself.

. . . .

. . .

On Friday, Shawn and Gus came in to finish off a case involving forged prescriptions; Shawn 'read' the staff to figure out which one was doing the dastardly deed because it was quicker than calling in known writing samples for everyone to prove it, and it was their luck that once accused, the woman made a tearful confession.

Lincoln had just handed off his report to her for verification when Vick called them both into her office. "We have another case." She stopped suddenly, sighing, and Juliet didn't have to turn around to know Shawn and Gus had come in behind them. "This isn't for you, Mr. Spencer. Go home and rest on your laurels after this morning's success."

"Oh, come on, Chief, we're just here to help." He took a chair unasked, but Gus wisely remained standing close to the door.

"A professor of military history died a few days ago in his sleep. It looked like a heart attack, the coroner confirmed, the wife confirmed he hadn't been feeling well, and there appeared to be no surprises. But now," and she handed a letter to Juliet, who kept it in her grasp despite Shawn's attempt to snatch it, "we've received this anonymous letter claiming he was murdered."

"Who did the autopsy?" Juliet asked.

"Woody. He may be weird but he's good, so if he says there was nothing suspicious, he's either right or the murderer used a form of poison which couldn't be detected in a standard autopsy. I've asked him to run more stringent blood tests."

Juliet read the letter. Printed on plain white paper, it simply said, "History repeats itself in the murder of Professor Napoli. Check the papers, and you'll find the motive. Sometimes research is about money instead of truth."

"The papers," repeated Lincoln. "Newspapers?"

"Research papers," Gus suggested. "Was the professor interested in any particular area of military history?"

"Civil War," Vick said, with a look at Juliet. "This case would be right up Lassiter's alley. In fact," she added with a curious tone, "the envelope was addressed to him." She handed it to her.

No return address, no markings. _Urgent: Head Detective Carlton Lassiter_. "Someone who didn't know he was gone," Juliet mused. "But did know about his interest in the Civil War?"

"Let's ask him what he thinks," Shawn said brightly. "Meaning, where _is_ Lassie-face?" When no one answered, he stood up as if impatient. "What is the deal? I've been asking about the guy for weeks and everyone's stonewalling me. Is there some reason I'm not supposed to know where he is? Is there a restraining order out on me or something?"

Juliet was a little surprised he hadn't managed to hack into any of Lassiter's financials yet; Lassiter must have requested extra safeguards with his bank. "He's in Virginia," she finally said, since she could feel Vick waiting for her to answer. As if Juliet was his keeper.

"What the hell's he doing in Virginia?"

"Sightseeing," she said simply. "Chief, we'll go talk to the professor's wife and get her take on this. Shawn, we don't need you yet. When we do, I'll call you." She looked him square in the eye. "So if I _don't_ call you, We. Don't. Need. You. Okay?"

Vick handed her the file, smiling slightly. "I concur. Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, thank you and we'll be in touch."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter called that night, and it scared her more than a little to feel how her heart raced at the sound of his voice. "Home tomorrow, mid-afternoon," he said. "I have a souvenir for you. If you're not busy, I could give it to you over dinner."

"I would have dinner with you even without a souvenir to sweeten the pot. I've missed you." Damn her lack of willpower. "I miss your eyes. Your smile. You."

He was quiet a moment. "Same here." Another pause. "Damn."

"Sorry?"

"You make it hard to be… calm and collected."

_But I don't want you to be calm and collected_. She almost said it out loud. "I'm just trying to get you mellow for your long flight home."

"Mellow isn't what I feel."

She swallowed. God, she wanted to tell him what _she_ felt. Instead, she mustered up the courage to murmur something about changing the subject, and then, "We have a new case you'd be interested in. A Civil War professor may have been murdered."

He cleared his throat. "Really. May have been? Who's the vic?"

"Jim Napoli."

"Really," he repeated. "I heard him lecture several times. I even met with him when I was choosing my summer classes. What was the cause of death?"

"It looked like a heart attack but Woody's doing more tests now to look for poisons." She explained about the letter. "Lincoln and I went to see his wife this afternoon. She claims she doesn't know anything, and I don't get any vibe that she killed him, but she wasn't as shocked as she should have been about the possibility he was murdered."

He was quiet. "What did that note say? Research isn't always about the truth?"

"'Sometimes research is about money instead of truth,' she quoted. "We've asked for access to his files and computer. The widow seems cooperative so far."

"Civil War research and money don't gibe. It's not like there's secret pockets of lore left to be tapped. Unless someone managed to find a previously unknown diary, but the authentication process alone means there's no quick buck to be made." After a moment, he added, "My last conversation with him was odd. I'm not sure it's relevant, though."

"Well, technically you're still on the payroll, so you're still a cop and can't hold out on me. What did you talk about?"

Lassiter was amused. "Let me go over it in my head and tell you tomorrow night."

"Deal." Juliet felt much too warm at the idea of seeing him again. "Miss police work at all?"

He laughed. "You can't drag me back in that easily. But yeah, I'm always going to be a cop on some level. It's only been a month."

"Seems longer," she said. Seemed like too damn long.

"I can't wait to see you," he said softly, and she said it back.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The knock on the door was earlier than she expected, but apart from being agitated in the extreme, she was ready. Thus, when she pulled open the door to see Shawn standing there with a pineapple, she was both disappointed and appalled. "Shawn! What are you doing here?"

"Jules! Why are you dressed like that?" He looked her up and down.

"Like what?"

"Black dress, not too short, not too long, just enough leg and a touch of cleavage. Earrings, hair down; _hell_ yeah, it's date night again. Perfect," he added, grinning, "I'll get to meet him."

_Oh God_, she thought, _this isn't happening_. The one good thing about it was his bike parked front and center; no way would Lassiter miss it.

"I don't think so," she said brightly. "I'm ready really early, and you're not staying that long."

"I'm not? Oh, Jules. You are so cruel to me." He almost got past her, but she barred the door and he opted not to force his way in. "He's not already in there, is he?"

"No, Shawn. Stop prying."

"Again, you forget who I am!"

"Why are you here?"

"Look. I'm actually, seriously, sincerely, worried about Lassiter. See, I even used his full name. I know there's a story about this and I want to know not just because I'm nosy but because, come on, the guy's been a central player in my life too all these years, and dropping off the planet isn't like him. I do give a damn. Come on, Jules."

She studied him—he did seem sincere. For Shawn. No, he was sincere, and she might as well tell him what it was safe to tell him. "He went to Virginia to tour Civil War sites. As for the job, it's just that he felt the need to make drastic changes in his life."

"It can't be that simple."

"What if it is?"

"Then why hasn't he taken any of my calls?"

Juliet sighed. "When have you ever given him a reason to think you're not just going to poke and pry and badger and needle and invade?"

Shawn blinked. "Well, he knows I don't mean any of that."

"Oh come on, Shawn. You two are oil and water and you _do_ mean all that. You _want_ to get under his skin. It's like you have a crush on him."

"Oh, no. No no no no. No no no no no no _no_, now, there's no need for that kind of talk." His hands were up and he was backing away.

She knew she was smirking. "Sorry. The point is, why _should_ he trust you on a personal level? Everything you've ever learned about him you've trumpeted around to the rest of the world. You're no…" she stopped. It would be too harsh.

"No what?" he pushed. "Say it."

"You're no friend of his. Colleague, yes. Someone you can count on when your life is on the line, absolutely. But friend? _You_ may feel that way, but what have you ever done to make _him_ feel it?"

Shawn was silent. "Wow."

Inside the house, her phone rang. "I'm going to get that," she said gently. "Sorry to be such a downer. Good night, Shawn."

She closed the door and raced to pick up the phone, seeing Lassiter's name on the screen. "Hey. You're not standing me up, are you?"

"No way. I'm standing at your back door. I saw Spencer out front. Is he gone yet?"

Peering out the window, she saw Shawn getting on his bike. "Yes," she said, and hurried to the kitchen while disconnecting, almost yanking the door open to see him.

"Hi," Lassiter said in a low voice, pocketing his phone. He looked tired and wonderful and his eyes were so damn crystal blue. "God, you look good."

Later she couldn't explain what came over her then, but looking at him, looking into his eyes and feeling everything at once, she couldn't speak; she simply wrapped herself around him.

He didn't resist her kisses; in fact he met them more than halfway, snaking his arms around her, kissing her as if they were picking up from where they'd left off that night on the boardwalk. It was urgent and intense, and in time he simply lifted her up onto the kitchen table, allowing her thighs to clamp around his hips while he pressed himself to her and devoured her mouth with his own.

"Damn," he said huskily, "now that's what I call a welcome home."

"I missed you a little," she agreed, nuzzling his throat, not letting him step back. "Maybe a lot."

He kissed her again deliciously, still pushing hard against her lower body. She could feel his increasing arousal, and welcomed it.

So much for giving him space.

She caressed his jaw, unbuttoning his shirt and planting light kisses along his exposed shoulder, feeling the tickle of the soft hair of his chest against her lips. Lassiter nipped at her earlobe, his breathing rough, pressing against her. He lifted her head back and kissed her harder, starving, suckling at her lips and tongue, and he might as well have been inside her for how erotic and raw it felt.

Juliet moaned against his mouth, her hands in his hair now, her thighs still clamping almost involuntarily around him. God, she wanted him. All of him. _Now_.

He stilled briefly. "Are we still going to dinner?" His voice, almost a growl, sent shivers down her spine and through every nerve ending.

"I'd rather not," she whispered, trailing her tongue along his throat.

Lassiter slid his hands up under her dress, and it took her a moment to realize he was pulling it up as those warm hands traveled north up her thighs and to her hips. "Then you won't need this," he whispered back, tugging.

The dress was on the floor and his hands were under her bra, on her willing flesh, when someone started pounding on the back door just a few feet from where they tangled.

They jerked apart, staring at each other in complete shock and don't-know-what-the-hell-to-do-ness when the voice yelling on the other side of the door settled into Juliet's brain as being Shawn's. "Dammit!" she cried, grabbing for her dress.

"Go," he urged. "Go and—whatever. I'll talk to him. Go!" He practically pushed her out of the kitchen, tossing her discarded shoes around the corner after her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Putt Putt

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet stood on the stairs, scrambling into her dress, listening with only part of her brain.

"C'mon! I know you're in there, Lassie; I see your car out in the alley, now give it up!"

Lassiter opened the door and must have blocked Shawn's path inside. "Spencer. Long time no see." He sounded in control of himself. Juliet envied him that.

"Lassie, are you actually Jules' _date_? That is so not right. Good to see you, though. Where the hell have you been? Why don't you take my calls?"

"I don't have to take your calls, Spencer. I'm not a cop anymore."

Shawn laughed. "You not a cop is like my _dad_ not being a cop like Donald Trump not having the worst hair in the world like Mother Teresa working a stripper pole."

"Mother Teresa is dead," Lassiter said flatly.

"Well, I think that proves my point, doesn't it? You're a cop for life, Lassie. I notice you're not letting me in."

"It's not my house. I don't have permission to let you or anyone else in."

"That sounds very authoritative. Let's have Jules settle this. Where is she? I'm tired of standing on the step looking at you. Not that you're not a handsome fellow, but I don't really go that way."

Juliet couldn't help but be amused at his insistent tone given her earlier remark about him having a crush on Lassiter.

"Juliet is upstairs getting ready." Lassiter still sounded in control.

"She was ready fifteen minutes ago. And you look…" Shawn's tone changed. "_You_ look—"

"Spencer, what do you want?" Lassiter's old impatience had returned. He may have walked away from the job but Shawn could obviously still annoy him.

"Dude. I just _happened_ to be circling the neighborhood on my bike, you know, keeping the tread on the tires even and all, and I noticed an oddly familiar car. Why, look, I said to myself, that shiny automobile seems remarkably similar to former Head Detective Carlton Lassiter's personal vehicle. Could it be? Let's go see! I rhymed, too; did you catch that?"

Juliet's handbag was within reach; she quietly pulled out her compact and comb and repaired some rather significant kissing/caressing/nibbling-related damage to her makeup and hair. Shawn was going on a riff of poetry dedicated to Lassiter's far away journey, and Lassiter must have decided to let it ride to give her more time.

After replacing her lipstick, she snatched a gauzy scarf from the coat stand and wound it around her neck… just in case. Then she backed up a few stairs, slipped her heels back on, and headed down again as if just arriving.

There was no way Shawn would believe it, but she had to try.

"Shawn," she interrupted, "didn't I tell you to leave before?"

"Jules!" he cried, and Lassiter let him by. "Long time no see. You look…" he paused, then smiled interestingly. "You look all aglow."

_I was about to get naked with Carlton_, she considered saying, but chose instead, "I'm annoyed with you. That glow is annoyance."

"I've heard it both ways." Shawn looked between her and Lassiter. "Hmmm."

"What, Spencer?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that if I didn't know better, I'd say you two had been…" His pause was dramatic. Juliet wanted to smack him. "_Fighting_."

She never did figure out how she stopped herself from showing surprise. Lassiter turned away from Shawn, rubbing his jaw, and she folded her arms across her chest. "It's really none of your business."

"That's fair. Look, you guys were partners a long time. There's bound to be friction after a sudden change of routine. Lassie," he said, pointing at him, "you need to be more understanding of how difficult this is for _her_."

Lassiter's expression was neutral. "I'll take that under advisement."

"Shawn, please go. We'll work this out ourselves."

"No, no, come on, we'll all go. You should have that dinner date after all. Someplace nice, right?"

"We weren't going to dinner, Spencer."

Shawn looked at Lassiter sharply; so did Juliet. But she figured it out. "The phone call when I threw you out the first time was my date cancelling. Carlton got here right after that."

"Ohhh… okay, I get it."

"Get what?" Lassiter inquired in a tone which sounded a lot more like "get _lost_."

"She was upset about her date, then the _other_ guy who _abandoned_ her shows up, so of course she's going to take it out on him. You." He grinned. "But why didn't you come to the front door?"

"Because I saw your bike."

Which was actually true. "Now that you've _sensed_ all this, Shawn, would you leave?"

"Actually, O'Hara," Lassiter said, "we probably _should_ talk more calmly. Since you're apparently free, let's go get some dinner."

The man was brilliant. "Fine." She went back into the hall to collect her bag and keys, and led the way out the back door.

Shawn tried to cadge an invitation to join them, but Lassiter just looked at him until he backed down, and Juliet got into Lassiter's car as if for her, the whole thing was already over.

He got in beside her and locked the doors against intruders (e.g., Shawn). "So, um, hi," she said, a bit self-conscious.

Lassiter gave her a wry smile. "Hi. Good to be back." He drove out of the alley and onto the main road.

In a rush, and unduly embarrassed given that not ten minutes ago she'd been writhing against him half-naked, "I didn't mean to maul you as soon as you showed up."

"I didn't mean to maul you back." He gave her another smile. "But you're… sort of irresistible."

"So are you." She felt herself blushing. "I really... really I wanted to give you your space. I don't want to come across as... I don't know what. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. It's more than all right. I'd just like to know... where did it come from?"

Juliet studied him. He was watching the road, and his manner was calm. "Where did what come from?"

"I know my own feelings," he said carefully, not looking at her. "I don't know yours. If I'd ever seen any sign that you... that this could happen... you have to know I'd have acted on it. Where did this come from on your part?"

She sighed. "It came from a locked box, inside another locked box, inside a locked trunk in the back corner of a closet on the top floor of a 20-story building. In… Kiev."

Lassiter laughed out loud, and reached over to squeeze her hand.

"I always had... yearnings," she explained quietly. "I just squashed them. You know why."

"Yeah. Partners. Same here."

"And I understand your hesitation, and really, really, really I don't want to make anything more difficult for you. I'll keep my hands off, I promise, if that's what you want. If that's what you _need_. Just don't shut me out."

"I hadn't planned on it." He drew to a stop at a traffic light, and turned to face her. "I don't know what the best thing is. I just know that if Spencer hadn't shown up we'd be doing something it's probably too soon for us to do. And I wouldn't have regretted it, ever, but I'd hate to think you might."

"It's hard to see how I would regret that," she said with a smile, "unless it ended up hurting you somehow."

He leaned in and kissed her gently. "Maybe we should thank him, then."

"Maybe not," she muttered, and he laughed again, proceeding when the light changed. "Smart move, by the way, telling him you weren't my date."

"Eh. If he wanted to misread our 'condition' as the result of an argument, it's okay with me. He already outed one relationship of mine."

Juliet smiled privately.

He must have sensed it, because he added with his own smile, "And yeah, I guess I call this a relationship, though I don't know exactly what kind it is, or where it's going, or even _if_ it's going."

"Right now it's going to dinner," she suggested. "And then we'll see."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Dinner was nice, she thought; good nice. Sexy nice. He wasn't doing anything to make it sexy, but she was still charged up from earlier and having a little trouble concentrating on, well, anything. He would speak and after a few moments she'd catch herself just staring at his eyes or his hands or his throat or his jaw, reliving what had happened and working herself into a state of physiological disarray.

Lassiter cleared his throat suddenly. "O'Hara," he said in what she knew to be his 'I'm having trouble maintaining control' voice, "stop giving off pheromones."

She snatched up her ice water and took a long drink. "Sorry."

Now he was surprised. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I don't even know what I'm saying to you. I also don't know why you had to wear the sexiest dress in the entire universe."

"I wonder if this place offers cold showers," she said, fanning herself with her napkin and shifting in her chair.

"Stop squirming," he said, almost pleading. "Are we going to have to go out to the car to take care of this problem?"

"Yes. Let's." She reached for her handbag, and Lassiter laughed. Sinking back into her chair, she let out a huge sigh. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Napoli," he said pointedly. "Let me tell you about my conversation with Professor Napoli."

"I'd really rather go out to the car and let you—"

"Napoli! Dead guy! Besides, the back seat's too small for—"

"Oh, God," she sighed, and flicked ice water on her own face. "Carlton, honestly, this is ridiculous."

They were both silent. Juliet willed her heart rate to settle down.

Lassiter rubbed his face hard, and drank down the rest of his own water. Clearing his throat, and looking only at his plate at first, he began, "Okay. I ran into the professor the day I went to pick up catalogs, and we set up a meeting for the day I registered. I talked with him for about an hour, about history in general and research in specific. He said, and I thought this was odd, that he wondered if I'd take a look at a journal article he was writing."

"Why was that odd?"

"Because I'm only a Civil War buff, not an expert. I'm not a writer or an editor and it was strange for him to ask me, someone he barely knew, to read his work prior to publication."

"Was it something he thought you'd be particularly interested in?"

"I don't see how. He said it was about a regiment in Missouri he'd been researching."

Juliet frowned. "Could he have been asking you because you're a cop? Was there anything unusual about this regiment?"

"I don't know. He said he thought I'd find it interesting, but didn't say why."

"So what did you say to his offer?"

"I said sure, if he wanted, but I didn't think I could do him much good. I told him I was going out of town for a few weeks and he said he'd get in touch after I got back. Then I pretty much forgot about it until you told me he was dead. When did he die exactly?"

"Tuesday night, supposedly in his sleep. Woody's supposed to have the full tox screen on Monday."

Lassiter shook his head. "Could be just a coincidence. Probably is."

"But the note is pretty cryptic. It's either a bizarre prank, or it means one person killed him and another person knows about it, so whatever he wanted you to look at might be the key. And I don't think it's a coincidence that he approached a _cop_ to read the paper."

"Any forensics on the note?"

"No prints, nothing unusual about the paper or ink. Word-processed. Oh, and the envelope was addressed to you."

"Me personally?"

"It came on Friday. McNab gave it to Vick. It said 'urgent' with your name and title."

"Odd." Then he grinned. "Of course, I am a legend, right? But it only means the sender didn't know I quit."

"You didn't quit."

"I did quit. You were there. You heard me do it."

"Your badge is still in Vick's desk and you're listed as being on leave of absence. You didn't quit." She was still holding on to a faint hope he'd agree with her.

He only smiled, and the hope grew fainter.

After dinner, they walked back out to the car, parked at the far end of the lot, and her pulse was racing again because being alone with him was suddenly a lot more risky than it had ever been before. _Please don't let me maul him_, she prayed to whichever saint was in charge of avoiding mauling men you wanted to take to bed.

He came around to unlock her door, which he didn't have to do in this age of remote entry, and pressed her up against the car, his mouth on hers in less time than it took for her to think "oh yesssss…."

"Dessert," he muttered against her neck, sliding his hands down her backside, yanking her close.

Juliet gave herself up to it. Later she understood completely that she would have let him have her right there on the hood of the car; in the moment all she could do was gasp and kiss and grind and undulate and want. So much want.

There was no way she wasn't making love to him tonight. None. "Take me home," she moaned as his lips grazed her upper chest, pulling at the dress he'd already removed once today. "Take _me_." His response was a growl of desire and—

Why was her phone ringing? Why?

"That's the station," he said roughly. "Dammit." He recognized her ringtone.

"I'm on call," she nearly wailed.

"Son of a bitch," he said, out of breath, letting her go, stepping back.

She tried desperately to collect herself before answering the accursed phone. All she got out of the voice on the other end was 'homicide' and the address where she was supposed to go meet Lincoln, stat.

"I can drop you off." He ran his hands through his hair, still coming back from their mutual edge of insanity. "It's closer to take you there than to run you home for your car."

He was right, and she couldn't even manage words to thank him. Somehow she made her legs work to get in the car with him, and by the time he'd driven to the crime scene, she could very nearly pass for a human being, if not a cop.

She told him she'd get a ride home from a patrol car or maybe Lincoln.

She didn't kiss him goodnight. He didn't look as if he wanted her to, because another kiss of any sort would have been gasoline on the fire, and the fire really didn't need any more help tonight.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The truth, she thought as she lay in bed hours later, after the crime scene had been processed and she and Lincoln had filed what paperwork could be filed at three a.m., was that she had always known the depths of her attraction to Lassiter.

She hadn't understood it for a long time, because he was prickly and easily aggravated, sometimes pompous and frequently thoughtless. His manner around people he was supposed to have power over could be off-putting. But early on she'd noticed he was… _gentler_ around her. More human. More prone to show his non-alpha side. And those moments were when she knew he valued and trusted her, and she could see the _whole_ Carlton Lassiter, not just the tough cop who had trouble keeping his gun holstered and his anger at a simmer.

Those moments also made her susceptible to his physical appeal. She'd always thought the broad-shouldered football-player type made her weak in the knees, but he wasn't that. He was tall and slim—and strong; he was fast and decisive and could express so damn much (even when it was hostile) with those incredibly blue eyes.

She'd had a few dreams and a few outright fantasies about the two of them, knowing somehow that no matter his social awkwardness in public, in private—in bed—he would be everything she wanted.

But those imaginings had to be stomped flat, because he was her partner, and she couldn't get involved with her partner, period. Plus he chased after his ex-wife for so long, and when his interest was piqued by Vick's sister, Juliet had been appalled. Appalled at how she felt when he talked about wanting to date her, appalled by the sheer dramatic force of that woman—_she_ was what drew him?—and unutterably relieved when it fell apart quickly.

Then there was Shawn, flirting with her at every opportunity. Initially she didn't know what to make of him—part savant, part ass—but she let him go on, neither encouraging nor discouraging him. When she had to, and she wasn't proud of this, she used him as a barrier between her and Lassiter. She knew he drove Lassiter nuts. She knew Lassiter didn't like it when she was tolerant of Shawn's tactics. But letting Shawn annoy the crap out of him meant less time fighting back the daydreams, because an annoyed and competitive Lassiter was slightly easier to resist.

Lassiter telling her he loved her in the same moment as quitting his job had been the equivalent of having a pot of gold thrust at her and instantly snatched away. _I'm yours; you can't have me_. What had infused her was a profound and unshakable realization that her life without him would be a dark place indeed, and she wasn't going to go there without a fight.

But these mental ramblings, she told herself harshly, were all about _her_. Lassiter had his own story, and right now that story was about his future. She couldn't lock him to the past he so wanted to shake off. What if his desire for her now was fueled less by loving her and more by merely being a male in close proximity to a woman who couldn't keep her hands off him? What if his declaration last month really was meant to be closure? What if she was clouding his dreams and his judgment by her near-wanton behavior?

She rolled over and pounded the pillow, and for good measure threw it across the room as hard she could.

Space.

She would give him space.

Even if it killed her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Sunday afternoon, Juliet lay on the sofa paying only limited attention to a movie about a renegade cop while trying not to think about Lassiter. She was still short on sleep after last night's investigation, but much too buzzed to actually settle down for a nap.

Her cell beeped… a text message. She reached for it expecting to see Shawn's name and a food-related question.

But it was from Carlton, and it said: _I'm afraid to come see you. I'm afraid to call you. But texting might be safe_.

She sat up, smiling like an idiot, and answered: _People have gotten in trouble with texts before, but I promise to be good_.

His answer: _Can you promise _I'll _be good?_

I'll bet you're _very_ good, she thought, but typed: _You're the strongest person I know_.

Lassiter: _You haven't been paying attention lately. How was your crime scene last night?_

_Night club brawl mixed with looting and gunplay. It was fun. You'd have liked it._

Lassiter: _Probably. I do love my gunplay. You tired?_

_Yeah, but another six cups of coffee and I'll be fine. What are you doing?_

Lassiter: _Trying not to flirt with you._

_You should let _me_ vote on that._

Lassiter: _See my first text._

Juliet laughed, and wasn't surprised when the phone rang. "Hey," she said warmly. "What are you really doing?"

"I told you. Trying not to flirt with you. I realized I've been sending mixed signals again. One minute I'm saying slow down and the next minute I'm practically groping you in public. Or in your kitchen."

"But I'm equally guilty, and _**I**_ started that kitchen business. Should we apologize to each other, or just pretend it didn't happen?"

"Neither. We should just…"

"Stay on opposite sides of bullet-proof glass?"

He laughed. "Yeah, something like that. I actually would like to see you. I forgot to give you your souvenir last night."

She jumped on the chance. "We could meet in public, in daylight, in a place where families gather. No opportunity for questionable behavior that way."

"Putt Putt?"

"You would play Putt Putt with me?"

"Of course. Who doesn't like Putt Putt?"

"I thought you hated it."

"No, I only hate Spencer raving about it."

"Huh. Okay, sure. I can meet you there in half an hour."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They had a blast. Lassiter was competitive but funny as hell and Juliet didn't even care who won because she was enjoying being with him too much. It helped that the place was crowded—kids and families as expected—so they couldn't linger anywhere and the game moved fast.

His shirt was open at the neck, no tie, and in the sunlight he looked happy and relaxed and hadn't she promised to give him space? No reaching over and touching the 'sternum bush,' she warned herself. Public place. Man on the edge. Leave him alone.

After the game—close, but he won—they settled into orange plastic chairs in the food court with ice cream sodas, and she said, "You are so much fun. Were you always this much fun and if so, how did I miss it?"

He shrugged. "The job. Too much focus on the job. No time for fun. No time to allow for the possibility of fun. I had to be serious, all the time. All. The. Time. Oh, here," he added, fishing in his pocket for a small tissue-wrapped bundle. "Your souvenir. It's just a little something I found in a gift shop. You don't have to wear it."

She unfolded the paper, already smiling simply because he'd thought of her. A silver chain came into view… connected by tiny silver handcuffs. She burst out laughing. It was perfect. "I am _so_ wearing this," she declared, and attempted to put it on. Lassiter got up and stood behind her, fingertips brushing her neck probably more than they needed to while he fixed the clasp for her. "Thank you," she said, catching his hand when he tried to go back to his seat.

"Glad you like," he said, seeming pleased. "And damn me for agreeing to meet in a public place."

"Better in public than not at all." She smiled, and felt very very good.

"Jules!"

Less good all of a sudden. Lassiter was between her and the voice, and the voice was indubitably Shawn's. He and Gus were at their table before she could even decide whether to run or stay put.

"Lassiter?" Gus sounded shocked.

"Guster," Lassiter said smoothly, reclaiming his seat. "Been awhile. You're well, I hope?"

"I'm… fine. Thanks. Um, you?"

Shawn was staring in open-mouthed exaggerated shock between Juliet and Lassiter. "Please tell me you only came here for the yummy nachos and/or cotton candy."

"Because we _know_ you didn't play Putt Putt," Gus added suspiciously.

Lassiter smiled. Juliet said, "He beat me by two points."

"Would have been more but she jinxed me at the jester."

"It was an unplanned sneeze," she protested. "I'm allergic to the cologne the soccer mom was wearing."

"That was a man, and it wasn't cologne; it was Cheez Whiz."

"He reeked of it. Might as well have been cologne, and anyway, you tried to jinx me at the flamingos by whistling the theme to _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_!"

"Hey, when the muse strikes, it must be obeyed." He grinned, and she laughed.

Shawn and Gus stared at each other. "Dude. They're doing… us."

"I'd rephrase that if I were you, but… yeah." Gus looked uncomfortable. "I thought I knew them."

Juliet gave him a bright smile. "We didn't know you were so close behind us. Pretty crowded out there."

"Oh, we haven't played yet. We eat first, then play, then eat again. Carbo-loading is important for this type of athletic competition, you know. Seriously," Shawn persisted, "you two actually played a game of Putt Putt? Lassie, what happened to you?"

"He lost a bet," Gus suggested.

"Or Juliet did. Or they both did. God, this is weird."

Lassiter got up, but she could tell he was still pretty relaxed. "Don't you hate it when the things you take for granted just… turn on you?"

"Damn straight." Shawn looked him over from head to toe. "I don't know you anymore, man."

_You never really did_, Juliet thought, and got up to stand with Lassiter. "You should try to pay more attention to stuff like this, Shawn." She touched Lassiter's arm. "Come on, let's give them the table."

"Guster," Lassiter said, offering his hand, and Gus shook it with an air of shock. "Good to see you. Spencer," he added with a nod, and led the way out.

He walked her to her car, both of them laughing at the effect they'd had on Shawn and Gus. "Oh, I shouldn't mock," Juliet sighed. "I know he's going to figure this out soon enough."

"I don't know. I think this is something he doesn't want to see."

She knew he was right. "He doesn't want to think of you as being someone who could…"

"Win you? I know. I'm having some trouble thinking of myself that way." He gave her a crooked smile. "Old insecurities."

"Don't be so sure of failure on this one, Carlton." She wished she dared move closer.

His eyes were so amazing, searching her wordlessly, and then he relaxed. "I'm not sure of anything anymore. But for the first time… I kind of like it."

"I kind of like you," she whispered.

Lassiter smiled.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6: Mrs Napoli

**CHAPTER SIX**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was still feeling warm and fuzzy at work the next morning when she and Lincoln met with Woody to get his detailed toxicology report on the deceased professor.

Woody was unduly perky, she thought not for the first time. "Mr. Napoli had a rather nice combination of drugs in his system. Very impressive really."

"Such as?"

"Three types of cholesterol meds, two types for hypertension, a diuretic, something for diabetes and even higher than expected amounts of lutein."

"That's all supposed to be stuff to keep you alive," Juliet pointed out.

"Oh, of course. No, that's not what killed him. What killed him was succinylcholine. A large dose, injected into his thigh. I apologize profusely for missing the needle mark on my first run, but I'd been up late the night before playing Twister with my wife and the cat and I wasn't at the top of my game."

While Juliet was wondering about the cat's viability as a Twister player, Lincoln said, "I've heard of succinylcholine; isn't it something only a medical professional would have access to?"

"Yup. Anesthesiologists or even vets. Are there any horses involved in this case?"

"I don't think so. Time of death?"

"Around one a.m. Pity about the horses. I like horses."

Juliet focused. "The wife went to bed just after midnight while he was asleep in his easy chair, and she didn't find him until morning. She swears the house was locked up tight. Could she have slept through someone entering, jabbing her husband and then sneaking out again?"

"Do they have a cat?" Woody inquired.

Lincoln ignored that. "I think we need to have another talk with Mrs. Napoli. From what I recall, succinylcholine works fast, so if she went to bed after midnight and he was still alive, and the time of death was one hour later, it's hard to believe she missed someone else being in the house while she was getting ready for bed herself."

"Let's find out. Thanks, Woody."

He seemed sad to see them go.

Juliet told Lincoln she'd meet him in the cruiser to go visit Mrs. Napoli, and on her way back from the restroom, Lassiter called. _Got to get that happy-response under control_, she warned herself before saying hello.

"Hey, O'Hara. I have some information for your Napoli case."

So much for gushing. "Really? Lincoln and I are about to go talk to the widow."

"I was thinking of doing that myself."

"Um, in an _official_ capacity?" Not that she'd mind. He was still technically a cop.

"Not exactly. More in a 'why did your husband send me this email?' capacity."

"What did he send you?" She paused. "And _when_? He's been dead for nearly a week."

"It came to the university email account assigned to me when I registered but I forgot about it. He sent it the same day I talked with him—the day before I left for Virginia."

"Well, what's the message?"

"It's the article he mentioned, plus a note that he was sure I'd find it of interest, and to get in touch after my trip."

"_Do_ you find it of interest? Send it to me."

"I've already printed a copy for you," he said with amusement. "I don't know what you'll make of it, though. That's why I want to talk to his widow."

"Come on, then." She gave him the address, suppressing a bubble of joy about seeing him again (_this is silly_: _you worked with him every day for years; why so schoolgirl now?_ _Because... before, I_ knew _I'd see him... now seeing him is a_ gift).

She and Lincoln got to the Napoli residence first, but he pulled in a minute later. She'd explained on the way, and knew Lincoln was curious to meet Lassiter. His work thus far had been further down the coast, and Lassiter was only a name and reputation to him.

Lassiter got out of the car, tall and collected, wearing a brown jacket she remembered, no tie, white shirt open a little at the neck, eyes sky blue; he smiled at her and his gaze fell briefly to the necklace she wore. The one he'd given her. "Carlton Lassiter," he said to her partner cordially, "and you must be Lincoln." The men shook hands. "Thanks for letting me tag along on this one." He held a folder, which he handed to Juliet. "Here's Napoli's article. It's conjecture about conjecture about a series of possible murders in a Missouri regiment during the war."

Lincoln repeated, "Conjecture about conjecture?"

"Mostly it's theories about whether or not the murders were murders or even took place at all. I haven't had time to research the regiment yet, but I'll check it out later. What I want to ask the widow is why he thought I would want this, and whether she has any other information which might not be in the article."

Juliet was puzzled. "Surely he couldn't have expected you to investigate a Civil War murder."

"I'm hoping she'll have the answer to that question."

As they walked up the winding brick path, she filled him on Woody's toxicology report. They were side by side, and occasionally his hand brushed hers—but it _could_ have been an accident, she assured herself in case Lincoln noticed it all seven times it happened.

Mrs. Napoli could have come straight from a British tea-cozy murder mystery, minus the accent. She let them in, recognizing Juliet first up, and seemed a bit confused about Lassiter being both with and _not_ with the police, though she was definitely charmed by his vivid blue eyes. "Oh, my," she said, "you remind me of my first boyfriend." She turned to lead them to the living room, and Lassiter's eyebrows were way high when he glanced at Juliet, who grinned.

The widow was wearing black, keeping to the old tradition, and she did indeed seem rather dejected. "James and I were married for 37 years. We've lived in this house for 32 of them."

It was an old place, well-cared for, a slice out of time, lined with books from floor to ceiling, and somehow a fitting place for Mrs. Napoli to weep when she was told that her husband had in fact been murdered. But there was something off about it, Juliet thought; not that she had done it herself (never mind having access to succinylcholine), but just something askew with her grief.

Lassiter spoke gently after she'd calmed down. "Mrs. Napoli, your husband sent me one of his articles, one he hadn't published yet. Do you know anything about his research into the possible murder of soldiers in a Missouri regiment during—"

"Oh, that!" she cried. "Yes, yes, that was his pet project lately."

"Can you think of any reason he'd want me in particular to read it?"

She blinked. "Who are you again?"

He wasn't fazed. "Carlton Lassiter, former Head Detective with the police department. I'm taking some summer classes and met with your husband a few weeks ago. He seemed very keen to get me to read this article, but I didn't understand why, since he's a thousand times more knowledgeable about Civil War history than I am."

Mrs. Napoli nodded. "Of course. He mentioned you. You were the test reader."

"Come again?"

"He wanted you to find the problems with it."

Lassiter was puzzled, and Juliet and Lincoln were puzzled right along with him. "Hang on. I don't understand. He wrote this article about the possible murders with the goal of publishing it, but wanted me to prove it was bad research?"

She beamed. "Yes, of course."

"Mrs. Napoli," Juliet interjected, "this doesn't make any sense."

"That's what _I_ told him."

Lassiter leaned forward. "He wrote the article, though."

"Yes. Well, he co-wrote it with one of his colleagues."

"But his name is the only one on the copy he sent me."

"Oh, yes, they had some kind of deal."

"Who's the other author?"

She folded her hankie, a bit annoyed. "I don't know. He has so many Civil War friends and he was just so coy about who he was working with. He said he wanted me to have plausible deniability when it came out."

Lassiter's frown took Juliet back to so many cases involving Shawn, nonsensical ramblings and powerful headaches. "Can you give us the names of some of those friends?"

"Of course, but the information is probably all in his laptop, which this nice young lady took the the other day."

Juliet confirmed. "We can look at his email and other documents. But if you can name a particular friend or colleague, that would be very helpful."

Lincoln got out his notebook, ready to write.

Lassiter interrupted quickly. "May I see the study?" It was where the professor had died.

Mrs. Napoli waved vaguely, already focusing on trying to remember names, and Juliet led the way across the hall. The floor creaked with every step, and Lassiter remarked as they entered the opposite room, "Didn't the front door make this much noise, too?"

"The whole place is creaky." The study was dark; heavy desk, heavy wall-hangings, heavy drapes. She crossed the room toward the window, a creak accompanying every movement.

"No sneaking up on anyone in this place."

She gave him a sharp look. "That's right. You'd have to know the house really well to avoid hitting the creaky spots."

He smiled. "As well as someone who'd lived here for 32 years?"

"Just so," she agreed. "The crime scene guys checked the ground and the roof for ladder and rope impressions but came up blank." The window was locked tight, and when Lassiter came over to unlock and open it, it screeched dramatically.

"Nobody snuck into this room," he said quietly.

They wandered through the rest of the house, finding the side door to the garden and the back door to a covered porch and the verdant back yard. Both doors creaked, and the porch door was partly blocked with lawn furniture. Every window they tried was locked but when opened, screeched or squawked in some way. When they went upstairs, they could easily hear Lincoln and Mrs. Napoli, and even with the master bedroom door closed, sounds traveled well.

Lassiter followed her down the stairs, and stopped her before she re-entered the main hall. "Even if you were _used_ to the noises this place makes, you'd have to be a pretty heavy sleeper to miss them all." He was giving her that look she knew so well: the one where he knew they were thinking the same thing, and it was exhilarating.

In the living room, Lincoln was finishing up with Mrs. Napoli's list of her husband's colleagues.

He got to his feet, and Juliet motioned for him to join her in the hall while Lassiter went in and sat with Mrs. Napoli. "What's up?" he asked in a low voice.

"Did you hear us walking around?"

"Understatement. Sounded like you slaughtered a couple of pigs, too."

She suppressed a laugh. "Those were the windows. The noise is the problem with her story."

He got it, smiled faintly, and followed her back into the living room.

"Mrs. Napoli," she said kindly, "one more thing about the night of your husband's death."

"Anything, dear."

Juliet hesitated. "You weren't telling us the truth, were you?"

Panic in her eyes. "What? What do you mean? Of course I—"

"You said you went to bed after midnight. His time of death was one a.m., which means you were right upstairs when it happened."

Mrs. Napoli was beyond pale. "Yes, that's right."

"This house is very noisy," Juliet continued, as non-threateningly as possible. "So the odds of someone entering through any of the locked doors or windows, crossing the creaky floors of the hall or the study, injecting your husband and then leaving again without you hearing _anything_ are pretty low, wouldn't you say?"

"But I… but I… if I heard anything, I thought it was Jim. I thought _he_ was moving around," she said anxiously.

"Mrs. Napoli, please. We're trying to find his killer."

She put her handkerchief up to her face, shoulders shaking. "I'm so ashamed," she sobbed.

"Tell us what happened," Lassiter said, his voice gentle. "We just want to know the truth."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It felt good to be sitting in Vick's office with Lassiter at her side instead of Lincoln, who had veered off to talk to Woody again.

Vick had actually hugged Lassiter when he walked in, a process which took longer than expected because a surprising (to him) number of people wanted to say hello. McNab would have hugged him too but Lassiter—with a smile—turned it into a hearty handshake.

"It's still really weird to not see your car here before mine," McNab said. "I keep thinking you're going to walk down the hall barking about coffee or something!" Immediately he was terribly embarrassed about the implication.

But Lassiter only grinned. "I don't bark as much as I used to. It's been a relaxing month. And I'm sorry for all the times I scared the hell out of you."

McNab was nonplussed. "But sir. That's my job."

"Nevertheless, there was hardly ever a good reason for me to be a jerk," Lassiter said mildly. "You didn't deserve it."

Too stunned to come up with an answer, McNab made an awkward exit, and the two of them turned to Vick.

"Pleasantries aside, what's the story on the widow?"

Habit made Juliet wait for Lassiter to start the telling, but when she glanced at him, he was looking at her expectantly. "It's your case, Detective."

Yes, it was. "Mrs. Napoli, as it turns out, is having an affair, though she won't say with whom. She really has no idea what happened to her husband, and she herself didn't get in until three a.m. She said she glanced in and assumed he'd fallen asleep in his chair again, so she left him until morning, when she realized he was dead."

Vick asked with some curiosity, "Why don't I recall Mrs. Napoli being the femme fatale type?"

"She's more Miss Marple," Juliet suggested.

"More like Mrs. Doubtfire," Lassiter argued.

"Somewhere in between?"

"Tootsie," he said, and even that wasn't right, but Juliet laughed anyway, and only belatedly noticed Vick noticing that.

"And what's this about an article the late professor mailed you?"

Lassiter gestured to the folder Juliet held. "There's a copy. I'm going to research it but from what Mrs. Napoli said, it's bogus and I was meant to figure that out."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. Seems he and a colleague cooked up some scheme to plant a fake story about murders in a Missouri regiment, but we're not clear why."

"Who's the colleague?"

Juliet said, "Lincoln got a list of his friends and we'll cross-check it against what's on his laptop."

Vick pointed at Lassiter. "Okay, you check—wait. Sorry. Habit." She smiled. "Thank you for any assistance you can provide, Carlton."

He smiled back. "Thanks for allowing it." He shook her hand and cast a blue gaze upon Juliet for a moment. "Too early for lunch?"

"No, of course not," she said at once, catching another curious look from Vick in the process. "Just give me a minute."

He nodded and stepped out into the hall, where he was promptly greeted by old familiars, and before Juliet could take a step to follow him, Vick said "Hold up there, O'Hara."

Juliet turned. "Yes?"

"I'm just going to ask you this straight out. Are you… giddy?"

Juliet felt a blush creeping up her face. "Giddy?"

Vick smiled. "That's what I thought. Go on. You're dismissed."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7: Flannery Talks

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Rated M. **Yeah, more smut**.**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter drove over to a diner Shawn didn't like because the proprietors had tossed him out for demanding a whole pineapple with his burger, and settled into a booth across from Juliet.

"Hi," he said, smiling. "Nice working with you again."

She inched her hand across the table under cover of the menu holder, and Lassiter caught it with his own. "Ditto."

He linked his long fingers with hers, still smiling. "Lincoln seems together. If I were still around, I wouldn't despise him."

She laughed. "That's a comfort. You'd like how he handles Shawn, too. He's just very matter-of-fact."

"Please tell me he's gay."

"Who, Lincoln? No; why?" He didn't answer, and she was delighted to realize he felt possessive. "Carlton! I'm flattered."

He looked wry. "Yeah, well, jealousy isn't admirable. Don't be flattered."

"You don't have to be jealous," she retorted, and squeezed his hand. "I am all about The Carlton these days."

"These days," he repeated.

"These fine and _glorious_ days."

Lassiter relaxed. Their hands separated when the waitress brought menus and water, but after she was gone he said, "Come sit beside me."

She didn't need to be asked twice. Fitting snugly into the booth beside him, the two of them now facing the back wall and not easy to spot from the door, she slipped her hand back into his and looked up into his smiling Irish eyes. "Another great idea," she murmured, liking being this close to him.

"I have some now and then." He looked around, and swiftly kissed her upturned face and then her lips. "Mmmm," he added, "you've tasted good every time I've done that."

"I wish you'd done it years ago." Again, she felt breathless, glad to have said it and wishing she hadn't.

His eyes were hard to read, but he finally said, "Some things have to be waited for to reach maximum… flavor." Then he laughed. "I don't know. Yeah, maybe I do know. Do I make any sense at all?"

"You're saying we needed to marinate," she said solemnly, and he laughed again, and oh, how she loved his laughter. There had been precious little of it over the years, and to see him like this was wonderful.

"Yes, O'Hara," he agreed, leaning in very close and nuzzling her ear, "I am saying we needed to marinate."

She turned her head and captured his lips for a kiss, a little too deep and intimate for a public place, but really she simply didn't care. The door to her heart had been kicked down, chopped for firewood and turned into ash, and she felt wide open to him, to the possibilities, to love and hope and everything good.

They sat close together for the whole meal, undisturbed except for occasional visits from the waitress, and Lassiter commented that although he'd always been incredibly annoyed by couples who sat side-by-side in booths, he was beginning to understand its appeal.

For Juliet, hearing him refer to them as a couple was appealing in itself. She kept her hand tucked into his until it was time to leave.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Juliet didn't see Lassiter the rest of the day, but he called her in the evening. He already had reading assignments for his first class, and incidentally had asked around a little about Napoli, but hadn't turned up much. His mind was on both the case and his class, and she didn't know what she wanted: for him to be focused like this, or for him to say _come over right now and warm this bed with me_. Or both. Yeah, both would be okay.

In the morning, she and Lincoln compared the list of Napoli's friends with the most frequently seen names in his emails, and came up with three likely choices. The first name on the list, Donald Flannery, was a professor at the university. The other names were for a man who'd been out of the country since the first of the year, and another whose line of work was fishing boats, so they figured he wouldn't be their primary interviewee.

Juliet looked up Flannery's courses, and read out loud to Lincoln. "American history and folklore. The note on the folklore class says it covers urban myths."

"Would a bogus Civil War article qualify as an urban myth?"

"Not very urban. But professors like to talk, so let's give him a chance."

He called Dr. Flannery and then she called Lassiter, who'd told her he had a morning class. She left a voicemail that they were going to meet with Flannery at eleven and if he was still on campus at the time he was welcome to join them. She caught Lincoln's glance (a la Vick; why were people so curious about her interaction with Lassiter?) (then she blushed, because she _knew_ why they were curious, and it had a lot to do with the fact that she _was_ blushing).

Dr. Flannery invited them to his office, and they were nearly to the building when Lassiter strode into view. "Good timing," Lincoln said. "Where's your schoolbag?"

Lassiter held up his netbook with a smile. "Times have changed." He walked up the steps with them, his hand resting lightly and yet (she hoped) possessively on Juliet's back. "Thanks for the invite. What do you know about this guy?"

"Just that he's a friend of Napoli's and teaches folklore." She wondered if she could possibly feel any pinker than she did right then , and was grateful Lincoln was leading their charge.

"Nice necklace," he murmured, and she blushed more deeply; she'd considered a different necklace this morning but the little silver handcuffs reminded her of him, that he'd chosen them for her.

She composed herself. "Did you have any time to research the article?"

"Yes, and it only took about ten minutes to establish it was a phony."

They had already reached Flannery's office, where the door stood open. "Come in," said the bulky man behind the desk, rising to greet them. "You must be the two detectives I was expecting, along with a total stranger."

"Detectives O'Hara and Lincoln," she said, "and this is Carlton Lassiter, who is assisting us with this matter."

Flannery's eyes grew wide. "Carlton Lassiter! My God, you did believe me!"

The three of them stopped, and Lassiter said slowly, "Excuse me?"

"My note! You believed my note!"

Lassiter gave the others a look, and Flannery scurried around to close the office door firmly.

"Sit, sit!" he urged, returning to his desk. "This means he _was_ murdered. I knew it!" Then he paused, eyes wide. "He was, wasn't he? You're not just here to ask me why I sent it? How did you know I did?"

"Hold up a second, Professor." Lassiter sat back in the chair, relaxed in a way Juliet recognized as not relaxed at all. "Let's start at the beginning. _You_ sent the note to the police?"

"To you, yes. You were the only one I could think of who would help me."

"I don't even _know_ you." His tone was only very slightly acid. Juliet marveled. He really _was_ more calm since he'd left.

"Jim and I have been friends for decades. I knew his death couldn't possibly be from natural causes. But how could I get anyone to believe me?"

"A simple phone call?" Juliet suggested.

Flannery scoffed. "Come on. I had no proof, only suspicions. And who was going to jump at the chance to prove an out-of-shape sixty-something history professor who apparently died in his sleep, _didn't_?"

"And this has something to do with the article he sent me? About the Missouri regiment?"

"No, of course not. That was just—look, we wanted to plant the article online to see if we could fool anyone. I'm teaching an urban myths class next year and we wanted to start one, only with a more authoritative slant than the typical 'a CD shot out of my computer and decapitated my dog' or 'woman finds gorilla finger in pudding' nonsense. But Jim was nervous we couldn't pull it off without a test reader, and when he met you, a cop with an interest in the Civil War, he thought you'd be perfect for it."

Lincoln interrupted. "Wouldn't posting a bogus article like that have damaged his academic reputation?"

Flannery blinked. "Not for long. We intended to leave it up until after the class began, and then replace it with an explanatory note for a few months before yanking it. He'd have been all right. We'd have hammered home that it was an experiment. And it had to be him because if I'd done it—as a professor of _folklore_—it would have been doubted from the beginning."

Lassiter sighed. "Okay, so if the article had nothing to do with his death, then why did you think he was murdered?"

Flannery ran his hands through what was left of his wispy brown hair. "Like I said, we've been friends forever. He confided in me. I know he was having marital problems."

Juliet cleared her throat. "We've met Mrs. Napoli. She doesn't seem like—"

"She's not! At least I don't think she is. I think whoever she's having the affair with is what worried Jim. He wouldn't say who it was. I just know he was intimidated. Scared."

"For his life?" Lassiter pressed. "He was afraid her lover was going to come after him?"

"Yes. Yes!" Flannery was relieved. "Now you understand."

_Not completely_, Juliet thought. "Well, your fears were correct. He _was_ murdered. Are you sure you don't have any idea who her lover is?"

"No, none. I don't even know how she could have met anyone. Phyllis is a homebody. She's just so placid and undemanding it's hard to imagine anyone even—" he stopped, uncomfortable. "Let's just say she doesn't lend herself very well to the image of cheating spouse."

"No," Lassiter agreed, "she doesn't. But murderers come in many varieties. What else can you tell us?"

"Not much. Another reason I knew he was murdered was that he was found in his easy chair. That Phyllis assumed he'd fallen asleep. Bull," he said with more heat, "Jim hated that thing. He called it his _un_easy chair. No way would he have sat it in long enough to fall asleep."

"He might have had chest pains and simply taken the nearest chair," Lincoln said.

"Maybe, except he didn't, because you just confirmed it was murder. Was he smothered? Was it poison?"

Lassiter stood up. "We're not at liberty to say, and while I wouldn't normally thank a citizen for wasting our time, I'll make an exception in this case since your approach did in fact lead to the truth. Or part of it, anyway."

Flannery held out a hand as if to stop him from across the desk. "But what about the article, Detective? What did you think of the article?"

Lassiter smiled, but it wasn't sincere. "It does read well. Very authoritative and dramatic. But anyone who's at all familiar with the Civil War in Missouri knows there's no legend about half a regiment murdered by villagers wearing wolfskin, let alone vanishing in the fog. It was too colorful to be trusted outright."

"Jim warned me the wolfskin was too much," Flannery muttered to himself. "But I thought… well, never mind. I'll think of something else. Wait! Yes! I can post it saying it was found in his other papers after his death, and—" he stopped, realizing they were all staring at him. "He'd have wanted my course to succeed. Really he would."

Juliet made their nonjudgmental goodbyes, and led the way out of the office.

In the hall, Lincoln said, "Okay, so where does a homebody meet a potential lover?"

"At home," Lassiter answered at once. "The lover comes to her."

"She could belong to clubs—book clubs, sewing clubs, that sort of thing."

"Those would primarily bring her into contact with women, though. We need to look at the neighbors," Lassiter said, and then looked sheepish. "Sorry. Forgot this isn't my case. _You_ need to look at the neighbors. Even if it's none of them, someone may have noticed who comes to the house regularly."

"Or hears it creaking," Juliet said with a small smile, and the men laughed. "Okay, we'll get started."

They started out of the building, and on the steps in the sunshine, Lassiter caught Juliet's arm. "A word?"

Lincoln's glance was casual, and he bounded away to fetch the car. Juliet looked up into Lassiter's blue, blue eyes, already wanting to be closer.

"I don't really have time for lunch but if you let me buy you coffee I can swing you by the station afterwards."

Juliet didn't answer; she simply got out her cell and called Lincoln to tell him she'd meet him soon. "Done."

Lassiter smiled, and they strolled along under the trees to where he was parked, in a shady spot in the corner of the lot. No one was around; he put the windows down to let in cool air as soon as they got in, but didn't start the engine. "Or," he said slowly, "we could sit here a minute and—"

Juliet was already tugging at his jacket to bring him close enough to kiss.

"Damn, woman, you're killing me," he sighed as she nuzzled his throat, and several things seemed to happen very quickly: he pushed his seat back, tilted the steering wheel out of the way, and urged Juliet into his lap.

She went willingly, kissing him fiercely the whole time. His mouth was like silken fire, like quicksand, any number of forces not to be resisted by a mortal woman such as herself. She loved the taste of his lips and the feel of his tongue and there was just no way to kiss him as deeply as she wanted.

He yanked her blouse out of her slacks so he could slide his warm hands underneath, up to her bra, to the bare skin beneath it, but she was so embroiled in their kisses that she could feel little else other than his mouth claiming hers.

It was when the bra got unhooked and his warm hands began to knead her breasts that she began to feel more, that her pounding heart took a back seat to her enormous desire for him, and her hands went to his belt, and to his zipper, and to the heat and hardness of him inside those pants.

Lassiter groaned when she touched him, and his kiss grew even more ravenous until finally at least one of them remembered they were in a car in a student parking lot in the middle of the day, and to top it off, they were both cops.

"Son of a bitch," someone said, and Juliet realized it was her, and that she had somehow disentangled herself from him and had collapsed back into her own seat.

"Don't need coffee now," he muttered, his hands on his face, still breathing raggedly.

She felt hot all over. Burning up. Wanting him. She hurriedly refastened her bra and tucked her blouse back in, and got out of the car for a minute for more air.

How in the _hell_ had they gone so many years with this passion unreleased? How in the _hell_ was it possible to want one man so damn much?

She heard his door, and when she looked over, he was resting his head in his forearms on the roof of the car. Instant guilt flooded her: _how in the hell_ had she so quickly lost her resolve to give him space? Was this at _all_ in his best interests, or hers?

Hers, yes. She knew that. But she didn't want to be only a source of hormonal craziness for him. She didn't want him to have any doubts about her, but so far she'd only told him she cared about him and repeatedly tried to jump his bones.

Lassiter was a man who needed commitment; she knew this with complete certainty. He wasn't looking for a fling or for farewell sex or to be 'friends with benefits.' And she didn't want those things either, so there had to be a strong foundation for him to trust in.

She also had to know his feelings for her weren't based on their partnership alone. She had to be sure his new life wasn't going to make him rethink _all_ of his old interests.

She wanted to be a permanent interest.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8: Lunch

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet and Lincoln spent part of the afternoon looking at Phyllis Napoli's friends and associates, but they had to break early; they were set up for a stakeout on a drug case for the evening and Vick had told them to take a few hours off prior.

From the ladies' room, she called Lassiter and told him how she was spending her night. They hadn't talked much on the way to the station, and the stakeout had been far from her overheated mind. He said, and there was the slightest, _slightest_ tinge of relief in his voice, that work had to come first sometimes and he had plenty of reading to do for his classes.

He was afraid, she realized. Just like she was. Not of being together, but of what it could mean or not mean. Damn her for pushing, she thought, angry at herself as she left the restroom and headed back to her desk.

Shawn and Gus planted themselves in her path. "What, still no cases for us?"

"Forget to pay the cable bill again?" she shot back.

Gus was indignant. "No, he did not. He's just bored because he hasn't gotten to make a public spectacle of himself for a few days."

"Gus, don't be a… hell, I don't know. Just don't be one."

"Talk to the Chief. I told you before. Lincoln and I don't need you on anything right now, and we're busy with other cases."

"What's going on with the Civil War case you hired us for?"

Juliet shook her head. "You weren't hired, Shawn, and we don't need you." It crossed her mind that they might be able to use him to figure out the identity of Mrs. Napoli's boyfriend, but what crossed her mind even faster was that she didn't want him cutting into her case time with Lassiter. She liked Lassiter relaxed. Shawn dancing around would only bring back The Cranky full force.

Plus she was certain it wasn't a good idea for Shawn to be around them right now, period. He wasn't going to think they were still 'fighting,' that was for sure.

"What are you thinking?" Shawn asked with wonder. "I've never seen so many expressions flit across one face in fifteen seconds before."

Gus intervened. "Leave her alone, Shawn. She's obviously busy and I don't want to wear out our welcome. Let's go talk to the Chief."

Juliet muttered her thanks and turned away, and Gus dragged Shawn off over his protests.

Lincoln stopped at her desk for a moment. "Meet you back here at seven? I lined up the cruiser."

"Yeah, sure. I'll be here."

He paused. "Your old partner… he's sure not what I expected."

Juliet looked up, curious. "What did you expect?"

"Well, you know. He has a reputation for being kind of… a…" He floundered. "A hardass. McNab talks about him like he's half-god, half-monster. But he seems pretty laid-back, if you ask me. I can tell he's got an edge, but he didn't strike me as the type to fly off the handle."

She smiled, considering. "Lassiter's reputation for being close to anger most of the time isn't that far off. The job was really hard on him. He's a lot calmer now."

"Does he really have eight guns?"

"Not any more. He gave them up when he quit… I mean, started his leave."

Lincoln was looking at her speculatively. "It's none of my business, but you two seem pretty tight. If you know what I mean."

She tensed. "If you're asking me whether we had a personal relationship beyond being partners, the answer is no. And I don't mean to be rude, but it's also none of your business."

"No, I understand. I just thought—" He stopped, uncertain.

She chose her words carefully. "Not being partners anymore turned out to have an up side. That's all I'll say." She gave him a small smile, and as an afterthought, added, "Listen, I'm _your_ partner now and we have to be able to trust each other. If you're not comfortable with him helping on this case, just say so and I'll take care of it. I don't want you feeling any kind of pressure from me about him."

Lincoln immediately said, "It's okay. I know he's a good cop and I don't mind an extra hand. He's kind of a legend anyway, and how often does a guy get to work with a legend?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Wednesday morning, Juliet walked into the station in a bit of a daze. The stakeout had gone on past two a.m. and netted nothing, and when she finally got to bed she dreamed intensely wicked things about Lassiter which left her in quite a state.

No other man had ever affected her this way. She ached to see him and didn't understand why these feelings were so strong. Her attraction to him over the past few years had abided without the full-out craving she felt now, hadn't it?

Maybe it was as simple as not being able to _un_see the seen. Maybe knowing the door was open on his side by way of his declaration of love five weeks ago was all it took?

And it sure didn't hurt that he was an A+ kisser.

Still, she wasn't much good at her job, and even pouring her first cup of coffee without spilling it was challenging. Lincoln looked a bit bleary too but he probably wasn't obsessed with a tall blue-eyed man like she was.

The tall blue-eyed man texted her as she was settling in at her desk. _How was your stakeout?_

_Boring and unproductive. How was your reading?_

Lassiter: _Not boring, not unproductive, but in no way as good as an evening with you._

Juliet sighed. _I dreamed about you._

Lassiter: _You don't want to _know_ what I did about _you_._

She laughed. _I might want to know, but not in a text._

Lassiter: _I'll whisper it in your ear sometime._

_Please do. When can I see you?_

Lassiter: _Lunch. How about in a church? Think we could keep our hands off each other in church?_

Laughing again and hoping not to be noticed by her coworkers, she suggested they meet at a cafe with outdoor tables near the police station. It would be about the same level of 'public' as in a church, only with better food. He agreed, and they set the time.

She and Lincoln were continuing with the project of discovering the identity of Mrs. Napoli's lover. They could just _ask_ her, but she'd made it plain at her home that she didn't intend to reveal it on her own. Juliet wanted to go ask her anyway and tell her they suspected her lover of murdering her husband, but as long as there was even the slightest chance she was in on it—or would warn him so he could flee—it was better for them to work behind the scenes for a while.

But they also had other cases, and Juliet went on not being very good at any of them this morning until even Lincoln asked her if she just needed to go home and sleep. As it happened, Vick was in earshot, and swung around to stop at Juliet's desk. "You do look pretty out of it, O'Hara. Do you need to take some personal time?"

"I'd rather not; there's too much work to do."

"There'll be too much work to do whether or not you take any time. Go home and sleep." Her tone was kind. "Don't make me say it again. If you feel better later this afternoon, you can come back."

"I have a lunch date," Juliet said very quietly, so no one else could hear.

Vick smiled knowingly. "Anyone I know?"

Juliet stared at her, feeling too silly to say his name out loud.

Vick's eyebrows went up. "Interesting. Well, you can sleep after lunch."

Instantly her thoughts went to sleeping with _Lassiter_ after lunch, minus the sleeping part, and her color felt high as she mumbled her thanks to the vastly amused chief.

On her way out of the station to meet him, she thought about calling him to suggest they skip lunch and just make love all afternoon, but she remembered he had two classes _and_ _oh yeah_ she was supposed to have some self-control, whatever the hell that was.

So she settled for sitting across from him at a table under a green and white umbrella. He looked wonderful, reasonably rested, and glad to be with her. She ached to touch him.

He cleared his throat. "You're beautiful, but never mind. How's the Napoli case?"

She couldn't help but blush. "Thank you, and we're still looking at her friends and associates, but I was thinking we should do what you said and concentrate on the neighbors. I want to go knock on some doors tomorrow."

"You're not going to believe this, but _I've _been thinking you might want to get Spencer in on it."

"Wow, I never thought I'd hear _you_ suggest hiring Shawn."

"Me either. But he does have people-reading skills, and he might figure it out quicker than we can. I mean, than _you_ can."

"You're a cop forever," she said lightly. "How are your classes going?"

"Interesting. The reading is abundant but I like it, when I can concentrate on it instead of daydreaming about you." Before she could respond, he continued, "Oh, and I got hit on this morning. It's been awhile, so I didn't get it at first."

"Let me guess. Sweet young collegiate, short skirt—no wait," she said as she remembered something, "it was a six-foot-tall muscled blonde who can kick your ass, and mine, and eats crowbars and short people for lunch."

Lassiter stared and then laughed. "What in the _hell_?"

She felt sheepish. "Sorry. I guess I forgot how annoyed I was when you were going after the Chief's sister."

He was still laughing, and she knew he had no idea how attractive he was when was like this. "Are you serious? You even cared that I wanted to date her?"

"Of course I cared! Well, I mean yes I was freaked that you would consider getting involved with our boss's sister given how they fight, but I also couldn't believe she was your type. That woman could have bent McNab like a pretzel!"

"But O'Hara… don't you see? It made perfect sense. If I could 'tame' a woman like that, it would have completely fulfilled the fantasy of being powerful and in charge and on top of every situation."

She sat back, looking at him suspiciously, a faint tendril of jealousy in her gut. "And did you 'tame' her?"

He shook his head, grinning. "She scared the hell out of me just ordering lunch. When we had dinner I nearly passed out. No. She was not for me."

"Good," she said with satisfaction. "So who hit on you this morning and should I be worried?" She picked up her iced tea and prepared for another tendril of jealousy.

"A soccer dad. Real ego booster."

She nearly spit out the tea, and Lassiter enjoyed her discomfiture. "Well, at least he had good taste."

"Damn straight. No pun intended. Listen, you need to understand how much of my behavior these past years came from my fear of failure." He tapped the table with his fork, thinking. "Okay, here's a particularly pathetic example. Remember the Christmas you invited me over to meet your family?"

"Yeah," she said reluctantly.

"Yeah, _you_ remember. I was an ass. I alienated them and traumatized your nephews."

"Carlton…"

"Come on, I did. I was so entranced at being part of a… family, even for a little while, but I forgot not to be a competitive jerk. After I scarred the boys for life with that Wii game, and realized I was alone in the room, I got what I'd done." He sighed. "I decided to just get my jacket and go. But I overheard you in the kitchen with your mother or your aunt or someone, and she said I was creepy and mean, and I knew she was right." His blue eyes seemed a little more intense.

Juliet felt terrible. "That was my aunt. She can be a little creepy and mean herself."

"I doubt it, if she's related to you. The point is, you asked her to keep her voice down, but you didn't defend me. Please—" he forestalled her objection, "I'm not saying you should have. It would have been a lie for you to defend me, but you're such a damn nice person you might have done it anyway. I got my coat and told one of the boys I was leaving, and the next day at the station I gave you that complete steaming crock of crap that you were jealous about not being the cool aunt so you'd feel better about the fact that no one in your family wanted me anywhere near them. I didn't want you to think of me as any more pathetic than I was. I figured if you thought I was just a jerk, I wouldn't have failed again as utterly and completely as I actually had. I could still have 'won' that way." He let out a breath. "You can't know how much I don't want to be like that ever again."

"Carlton," she began, and her heart was aching. "You're so much better than you think you are."

He smiled gently. "No, Juliet, I'm not. But maybe one day I can be. I know the past five weeks haven't been anything like typical for what's ahead. Starting classes, spending time on this Napoli business, making out with you every five minutes, not to mention three of those weeks traveling on the other side of the country. But I know—I _know_—leaving the job was the best thing for me. At least for now."

"I believe you." She did, more than ever. And not just because she was enthralled with making out with him every five minutes. "I hope I'm not making it harder."

Lassiter's expression was one of wonder. "Harder? No. Confusing and crazy and exhilarating? Yes. Would I change it? Not in a million damn years." He leaned across the table and squeezed her hand. "And I won't hold you to any of it, you know that."

"I know, but it's not like you're going to have to hold me to anything," she said softly.

He sat back in his chair, smiling, but she still felt his hand on hers. "Since you asked me about Barbara… let me ask you about Spencer."

Juliet blinked. "What about him?"

"Lot of flirting going on there. Mostly on his side, but sometimes yours. I thought you were… into him."

She wanted to be exceptionally honest with him. He could have no doubts. "Shawn is very persistent and persuasive. I know you don't see it, but he can also be very sweet and giving."

"It's not just me who can't see it," he said dryly, "but it must be true or else Guster wouldn't still be around."

"Right. But he's… I need an adult. And Shawn's not an adult. I'm not sure he'll ever be an adult. I see potential in him—a lot of potential—but there are aspects to his character which I can't tolerate. It's like…" She thought about it, and smiled. "He'd be a _fun_ boyfriend but he wouldn't make a serious, long-term boyfriend. He's not someone you could make plans with, or make an _adult's_ life with. Remember when I was dating Cameron Luntz?"

Lassiter half-smirked. "Oh, yeah."

"He reminded me of you."

He blinked. "In a good way or a bad way?"

"Good," she assured him, "except that he was too sure of himself. He was too much in command, all the time. There was no trace of vulnerability to him, but there is in you. I can see it. You _let_ me see it." His voice in her memory… _I didn't give you my heart; I only showed you I have one_. But she'd already known.

For a few moments they only looked at each other. Then he smiled, and his blue eyes encompassed the sky overhead. "I could trust you with anything," he said simply.

"Back at you, Carlton. One hundred percent."

Shawn deposited himself in one of the empty chairs at the table. "So."

Juliet felt as if cold water had been dumped on her, and Lassiter's relaxation evaporated.

Gus stood between Shawn and Lassiter, and she wondered if that was for Shawn's protection. "Hello. We're not staying."

"So," Shawn repeated. "I guess I read that wrong."

"What, Spencer?"

"When were you going to tell me?" He asked this of Juliet, but stared at Lassiter, who stared back impassively.

"Shawn, we should leave."

"Tell you what?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

"Shawn, what have I told you about begging for cases?" Gus implored.

"That! That, Jules! You're letting _Lassie_ help on the Civil French Indian War history murder guy thing, and we're being shut out?"

Gus walked off a few steps, shaking his head.

"He's not _helping_, Shawn. He's a cop. He's doing what he was trained to do."

"So? We're paid consultants! This is our specialty! He's on leave—you need to be calling on us, not him! Wait. Did you just say he wasn't helping? Like, he's hindering? Because _that_ makes me feel better."

"Neither my intention," she assured him, "nor my meaning."

"I volunteered, if that makes a difference," Lassiter said noncommittally.

"As a matter of fact, it makes no difference at all. We volunteer all the time and that doesn't mean we get hired."

"Which is usually when you barge in anyway and disrupt the investigation."

"And solve the crime, Lassie. We solve the crime." Shawn was seriously irritated. "What have _you_ done?"

Lassiter stared at him. "The _work_."

Oooh, Juliet thought, and he was right, too. Shawn came in and did his thing but it was everyone else who had to clean up the messes, keep everything legal, and file the paperwork. "Shawn, Carlton is involved in this case because the case involves him, or it did. Okay?"

A waiter appeared to offer Shawn and Gus menus, which Shawn accepted eagerly until Gus yanked on his arm and pulled him to his feet. "We're going, Shawn." He refused to let go of his arm, but it wasn't until Juliet gave him her death glare that Shawn got quiet and left.

"Damn," she said. "I thought we were busted."

"So did I. He's not going to handle it well. Not just because he likes you but because he really _doesn't_ like me."

"Get real. He's crazy about you." She smirked at his pained expression. "I know he's straight but he can't seem to stay away from you, Carlton. Maybe all this time he spent flirting with me was just a cover."

He rolled his eyes, and really, what else was there to say?

After lunch, they stood on the sidewalk for a minute. Lassiter looked around for familiar faces, and finding none, bent to kiss her lightly, right on the mouth, right in the open. "Do that again," she said with a smile.

"No," he said with his own smile. "Wouldn't be prudent. Not at this juncture."

"Where's the nearest juncture?"

"We'll be there soon," he assured her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	9. Chapter 9: Got Smut?

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Rated M. All aboard the Smut Bus to Smut City!**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They invited Lassiter to sit in on the further questioning of Phyllis Napoli Thursday afternoon. Vick had decided she should be called in before they invested too much more time in going around her to identify the lover, and since Lincoln had to go back to his home turf on Friday for a court appearance, saving time was in everyone's best interests.

Lassiter leaned against the wall by the mirror in interrogation, arms folded, watching Mrs. Napoli without any particular expression. Juliet was across from him, Lincoln to her left.

A box of tissues sat on the table. The widow seemed to need them.

Juliet began. "Mrs. Napoli, we've asked you here today to help us find out who killed your husband. I know you don't want to hear it, but right now our chief suspect is the man you were involved with."

"No, it's not possible."

"I'm sure you feel that way, but telling us who he is can help him. You'd like to clear his name, wouldn't you?"

"But you don't have a name," she pointed out with a trace of confusion.

Lincoln said calmly, "We'll get his name."

Juliet added, "It's better for everyone if you save us the trouble of questioning your friends, neighbors and relatives. A lot more private. You might even consider that you owe your husband that much."

Mrs. Napoli burst out, "I loved my husband! I never wanted to hurt him. This… this just _happened_. It just happened!"

"You may not have wanted to hurt him, but someone did. Someone murdered him. And right now, _you're_ the reason. That means you're the only person who can make this right."

She shook her head, tearful but obstinate. "I don't believe anyone who loved _me_ could kill Jim. I don't believe anyone _I_ loved could kill Jim. This is some strange mistake. I can't explain it and I can't even imagine why anyone would want him dead, but it's not… it's not who you think it is. It just can't be."

"Mrs. Napoli, you have to help us. Your husband would want you to help us. We're not going to stop looking for this man, and we can wait a long time to find out who it is, because there's no statute of limitations on murder. By refusing to help us, by refusing to give this man a chance to prove his innocence, you're ensuring that you won't have any kind of life with him."

The widow blew her nose, and remained silent.

Lassiter spoke. "You didn't know he was going to do it, did you?"

She glanced at him sharply. "I don't know what you're talking about. I told you; no one I loved could do this to Jim."

"People we love do all kinds of things. People we love betray our trust and break our hearts all the time. Sometimes they mean to do it. Sometimes they don't care. Sometimes hurting us is the last thing they want. But it happens. Your lover may have simply wanted you all to himself. He may have thought that by making it look like natural causes, you'd be able to start a life with him with a clear conscience. So much better than a nasty divorce. So much less pain."

Mrs. Napoli was staring at him, listening closely, but Juliet couldn't see any real signs that she was changing her mind.

Lassiter went on, slowly, "You're already wondering if we're right. You're already going over in your mind all the clues there might have been that this man could take such a drastic step to be with you. You're thinking about it."

She swallowed.

He stepped over to the table and bent down, his cool blue gaze locked to hers. "But here's the thing, Mrs. Napoli. _We're_ thinking about it, too. Not about what clues your lover gave you, but about what clues you're giving _us_. What clues you'll continue to give us. If you don't want to give us a name, okay. If that's what makes you feel safe. But you're going to feel a lot worse when we find out anyway, and it's not going to make your lover feel any better about you talking to us. Your lover… is going to wonder about _you_." He straightened up.

For a moment she didn't move; she just stared at him in fear and confusion. For a few moments after that she stared at the tissue in her hand, blinking and sniffling a little.

Then she said shakily, "I would like to go home now."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The report had been filed and Lassiter was still at the station, talking to Dobson about his classes, while Juliet and Lincoln finished up for the day.

"Too bad about the timing of my court appearance," Lincoln said. "I think we need to move faster on this now. She's going to warn the guy and he's going to ground. Even if we figure out quick who he is, he's just going to hide and make it all take a lot longer."

"I know. I'll take an officer into the neighborhood tomorrow. Someone will have a theory and point us in the right direction."

"Take Lassiter," he suggested. "If he's free."

She glanced at the man in question, who was going into Vick's office just then, and pretended to find the suggestion of only casual interest. "Good idea. I'll find out his schedule. See you Monday?"

He nodded, and was off.

Lassiter came out of Vick's office again; Vick followed to ask if he was thinking about how much he missed work and he smiled but made no answer, coming over to Juliet instead.

A little embarrassed by how much she wanted this, she asked, "Are you free for dinner?"

"Yes, I am." His smile for her was vaguely seductive. She felt like he was touching her, but there was a respectable distance between them. "Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

"Of course." She looked around, checked her watch, and suggested the observation room back downstairs. Leading the way, she wondered what he needed to discuss and hoped it would involve kissing, because just the sight of him was making her thrum.

He closed the door behind them and caught her hands, then pushed her back against the wall, pinning her in place with his body. "Hi," he said softly.

"You read my mind," she said, and that was all, because his mouth on hers prevented further speech. Oh, such hot kisses, such deep, need-filled kisses.

He nuzzled her neck, pressing hard against her, and Juliet's hands escaped his grasp and found their way under his jacket, running up and down his back, wishing his damn shirt wasn't in the way.

Lassiter for his part took a more direct approach; with his tongue now dancing against hers, he slid his hands under her skirt, under her panties, touching and kneading her bare skin, and now she wished fiercely for those hands to be all over her body, not just there, though there was nice... niiiiiiiice... not nice at all but then the next thing she knew, somehow she had her hands directly on his skin under _his_ slacks, and oh _hell_ yeah, that was sexy, his lips on her ear, his breath on her throat, one hand moving to slide up under her blouse to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple under the lace, and then his mouth was locked on hers again and if there'd been a table in the room she'd be on it, skirt up, legs around his, but damn reality, damn the inconvenience of damned reality...

He dragged himself away from her roughly, as if _she_ were a force stronger than one man could resist. "Holy crap," he said raggedly. "What you do to me... I can't..." He rubbed his face hard.

Juliet felt limp. Drained. "It's mutual."

"It was just going to be a kiss." His tone was wondering. "Just a kiss."

"I don't think we have those." She leaned against the wall because it was either that or slump to the floor bonelessly.

"Makes me wonder if we'd ever have gotten any work done if this had started while we were partners."

She laughed weakly, and he came back to her, put his hands on either side of her shoulders, and kissed her hard, matching the pressure of his mouth with the pressure of his lower body against hers.

She hooked one leg around his to shift their bodies together even more intimately, and he busied himself with unbuttoning her blouse enough to be able to nuzzle her breasts above the lace line of her bra. But then his hands found their way back under her skirt, and to her shock and pleasure, one wicked hand slid around to her front, making her shudder in anticipation.

"I want you," he growled, and slid that hand over her panties, moving unerringly down toward the heat she had for him, stroking her lightly and maddeningly.

Her response was to drive her tongue into his mouth, which attack he met with his own full force, both of them gasping for air but unable to stop kissing.

But damn, damn, _damn_, Lassiter stopped it again just before his fingers slid under that final wispy bit of fabric. "Not here. God, not here."

_Dammit_. He was right, and she hated that he was right. She collapsed against him, her face in the curve of his neck, and the wanting was incredible.

"We have to get out of here," he said after a time, holding her tight to him. "Come on, baby."

Somehow they reorganized themselves. He told her, when she asked, that she only looked slightly mauled, but he didn't kiss her again because they both knew better. Deep breaths, and then back into the hall and up the stairs.

Right into the circle of officers being entertained by Shawn and Gus, mostly Shawn, who was doing his oft-repeated 'reads' of the fairly new staff. "Lassie!" Shawn exclaimed, immediately grabbing him by the sleeve, not letting him pass.

Juliet ducked into the ladies' room to be sure she didn't look as totally trashed as she felt. Her lips were slightly swollen and her color was high, and she had to adjust her underthings to restore complete order to her clothing. A splash of cold water, and she headed back to her desk to apply fresh lipstick—thinking with a shiver that she hoped Lassiter would kiss it off again post-haste—and Gus followed her.

"Hey, Juliet, whatever became of the Civil War professor case?"

What case, she wanted to say. "Oh, we're still looking at who actually killed him, but we're getting closer."

"You don't need Psych?" His tone was odd.

Juliet smiled. "We're doing fine. Lassiter's been a big help."

"But you don't need us?"

"Do you need us to need you?"

He stepped closer to the desk. "Shawn really wants you to need us."

"Why?"

"Juliet, it's really weird. I think... I think he misses Lassiter."

"That's not weird," she said at once. "Why shouldn't he miss him?"

He gave her a look. "Don't get me wrong. I understand _you_ missing Lassiter; you were partners for a long time. But Shawn missing Lassiter is just weird."

"Not really, if you think about it. Without Carlton to bug the hell out of, Shawn's only got his dad to rebel against."

"Huh. Maybe. So you don't need us on the case?"

"Sorry. But we'll call if we do need you," she added brightly, thinking _you're really in the way of my plans to rip Carlton's clothes off and acquire intimate carnal knowledge of every part of his body while he plunders mine, so, um, later, k_?

But when she and Gus walked back down the hall to the gaggle of cops, Lassiter was about to be dragged off by said gaggle for a drink. He gave Juliet a helpless look, and broke away long enough to say he'd keep it as short as he could. "Most of these guys wouldn't meet me at the water cooler two months ago," he muttered.

"It's different when you don't work together anymore. They did respect you, Carlton. They really did. They _do_."

"You're coming, right? Please?"

As if she was good for anything right now other than taking him to bed. "Just me and that bunch of pre-drunken guys? No, I'll pass." She smiled at him. "Just don't forget me."

Lassiter's blue gaze was both fierce and amused. "As if I could." Before he could say more, Shawn had grabbed his arm again to haul him away.

Juliet stood in the suddenly empty hall, feeling suddenly empty herself. Too bad cold showers really didn't work for women.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He called her after eight. There was music and laughter in the background, but he was tense. Then again, so was she. "Spencer has separated me from my vehicle."

"Come again?"

"He said we were just going three blocks over to this stupid pub—I think it's called Circles—but now we're five miles out and everyone's too drunk to get me back to my car." He sighed. "I'm going to call a taxi."

"Where's Gus? He doesn't usually drink much."

"Guster has met a girl," he said with derision. "She is not half the girl I've met, the one I had hoped to ravish tonight, so I am unsympathetic to his needs. Bottom line, he's not interested in leaving."

"Too bad, because that girl you met is very interested in being ravished." Understatement of the year, she reflected. She still felt like rubber from earlier.

Lassiter laughed. "I hoped she might be."

"I can come get you. I will, too. Just give me time to find my car keys." She wasn't kidding. She needed him with her, as soon as possible, for as long as possible, and driving to some bar she never heard of to collect him seemed like a pretty minor issue.

"I might take you up on it. Hey, wait, I see a sober cop. Let me call you back."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The phone rang again at ten, and she snatched it up immediately. "Carlton."

"I finally got back to my damn car. Ended up taking a taxi over there. Had to sneak out the back door to get away from Spencer—the man's relentless. He stole my keys and I had to wait for him to pass out before I could get them back."

She laughed. "He passed out?"

"Not before his rousing karaoke rendition of _Total Eclipse Of The Heart_. He's all right. Guster's girl dumped him half an hour ago so he'll get him home."

"Wow, Carlton, I'm sorry. Fate keeps working against our inappropriate intentions."

"Well, fate's going to get its butt kicked tonight."

Goosebumps. "Where are you?"

"Heading to your place. I know it's late, but… I think I know how drug addicts feel," he said, his voice husky. "Waiting for the next hit. Only _you're_ my drug."

She hadn't known she could sigh as largely as she did then. "I don't mind."

He let out his own sigh. "If you still keep your spare key in the same place under that loose board, I can be in your bedroom in ten minutes."

She whispered shakily, "Make it nine."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet could hear him coming up the stairs fast in the darkness, as if he'd been there a hundred times before, as if he'd ever been in her bedroom, to which his path was unerring.

He didn't say anything. He bent to kiss her but didn't join her in bed until he had stripped off his clothes completely. She wished for more light in the room to see his body, but knew her chance would come.

Sliding in beside her, under the sheets, he murmured for her to take her gown off while his sure hands tugged efficiently at her panties, flinging them across the room with the rest of the fabric obstacles which had been between them.

Then they lay together, entwined. Every inch of her bare skin which touched any part of his bare skin was tingling, alive, and demanding more.

She molded her curves to the hard planes of his body, stroking his back and shoulders and draping one thigh over his, allowing a particularly hard and smooth part of him to shift against her nether regions. He kissed her with a groan of desire, one palm skimming her nipple, and that's when the fire engulfed them both, as it might a dry shrub at the edge of a forest inferno.

And that fire roared for hours.

She lost count of how many times he made her cry out with intense pleasure and release, but remembered every arch of his body against hers and every time he gave up all semblance of civility and pushed at her in sheer animal passion. They'd reduced each other to that. They'd elevated each other to that.

His warm hands and mouth knew so many tricks, but she had a few of her own, and with her own hands and mouth she learned his skin and most sensitive spots… and how to make him lose all control, which only enhanced her own pleasure. She loved his body, lean and angled and hard; she loved his long legs and long fingers and the fur of his chest and all points southward; she loved how he ground himself against her and drove them both to orgasm again and again.

It was heaven from start to finish and re-start and re-finish… lather, rinse, repeat. He tasted so good. He felt so right. She felt branded by his heat and his strength and his desire, and no other man had ever made her feel so damned good before.

Or ever would again, she thought dreamily as she faded into sleep.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She woke in the pre-dawn, gray light illuminating the room dimly. Feeling the heat of Carlton's body beside her, she turned her head to see him.

His long-lashed eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly. Relaxed. At ease. Delectable.

He had been marvelous these past hours. Sexy, relentless and oh oh _oh_ so tasty. A feline smile curved her lips, and she shivered with remembered passion.

The clock was twenty-three minutes shy of going off and she had to go to work. Calling in wasn't an option, with Lincoln out for the day, but leaving Lassiter was going to be difficult.

He _mmmppphhfffed_ and rolled onto his back, and she didn't let herself think about it; she merely climbed on top of him and kissed him awake.

"Hey," he murmured, arms closing around her. She nuzzled his chest fur and felt him kissing her temple.

"I have to go to work," she said regretfully.

His hands slid down to her bare bottom, caressing. "I can try to talk you out of it."

"Talk won't work," she advised.

He smiled against her mouth. "I can try to _seduce_ you out of it."

"Hmmm? Well, you have twenty-two minutes until the alarm goes off."

Lassiter's hands got busy, and soon he had flipped her onto her back and was talking without using words, but she was making enough noise for the two of them. Thank God her bedroom was on the back side of the house, not near the neighbors in the other half of the duplex. The sounds they'd have heard last night would have been considerable.

When the clock radio came on, he was almost there and she'd been twice over; before the song ended he collapsed against her, gasping, shuddering, and she melded herself to him as they settled down, though it was hard to settle down with him because there were always more kisses, more touches.

He reached over and slapped the radio into silence, raising himself up on his elbows and gazing at her with what she knew—felt—was love, but he didn't say anything, and neither did she, because although it was true, she wanted to tell him sometime when he wasn't expecting it. She wanted him to believe the words weren't only prompted by afterglow.

Sighing, he kissed her slowly and deliciously, and that said it all for both of them.

When he allowed her to get up a few minutes later, she asked if he wanted to help talk to the Napoli neighbors. She could get McNab or another patrolman to go with her, but Lassiter immediately said yes, and he could meet her after his morning class.

She left him in her bed while she got showered and dressed, and went to kiss him goodbye. "Keep the key," she whispered. She'd told him about the spare a long time ago during an investigation where they were both being targeted off-duty. It didn't make any sense for him to put it back. It was safer with him than under a loose board.

Lassiter smiled, and she very nearly took off her clothes again, but he wouldn't let her—he'd almost never been late to work in all his years on the force and he wasn't going to let her be late because of him. "One of us has to maintain protocol," he said seriously.

"Protocol, schmotocol," she retorted, stealing one more kiss. In the doorway, she hesitated, and looked back at him. "Carlton?"

"Yes?" He looked so comfortable against her pillows, bare-chested and at least semi-sated.

"In case you were wondering?"

He waited a moment, and prompted her. "Yes?"

"I love you."

Lassiter stared at her, a smile coming along slowly.

"I'll see you later," she said, and started out again.

"Hey!" he called. "Wait, wait, wait."

She peeked back into the room; he was sitting up. "Yes?"

"O'Hara," he began.

"_O'Hara?_ Really?" Eyeroll.

"Juliet," he said with emphasis, grinning now. "Don't make me chase you down the stairs naked."

Juliet laughed. "Bring it, baby."

He threw back the sheets and started toward her, and Juliet was both titillated and charmed, but held out her hand to stop him. "What? You said to bring it."

"Put that away," she admonished him, still laughing. "I have to get to work."

"Not yet," he shot back, and scooped her close to his nude body one second later. "For an 'I love you,' I get a few extra seconds and a chance to say it back." His smile was brilliant, and his blue eyes were alight with what she knew was happiness. He cupped her face and kissed her gently. "You're sure?"

"Very," she whispered, and kissed him back, sinking against his chest, her arms around him. "Completely."

"I love you too," he murmured. "So much. So long. So… God, you're amazing." He kissed her hard, deep, sure, ardent.

It took another ten minutes to get down the stairs, and she had to re-do her hair and lipstick before she went out the door.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	10. Chapter 10: The Fishers

**CHAPTER TEN**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Good morning, Detective," Henry Spencer said when Juliet stopped at the coffee table. "How's that Civil War case coming?"

Processing… processing… _oh yes, my actual job_, she thought. "You do realize it has nothing to do with the Civil War, right?"

He blinked. "Well, that's what Shawn keeps calling it."

Juliet gave him a look. "Let me guess. He's been badgering you to be assigned to the case."

Henry shrugged. "That's my boy. But if you don't need him, you don't need him."

"We don't need him."

"So I hear. Why does he want on it so badly?"

Juliet smiled. "_Because_ we don't need him."

"I thought it had something to do with Lassiter?"

She didn't want to talk about Lassiter because she knew if she started, she'd just gush all over the place and ruin what little presence of mind she had left. "Is Shawn, by any chance, bi?"

Henry's eyebrows shot up. "Uh, come again?"

"Well," she said sweetly, "I was just wondering about his obsession with Carlton. It's like he can't stay away from him." She threw her stirrer in the trash, flashed him a bright smile, and went to her desk. He did not follow. Mission accomplished.

McNab brought her some mail later and said, "Wow, you look really... wait, I can' t remember. Am I _allowed_ to say you look really pretty today? I don't want to get in trouble."

"With the department or with Francie?" she teased.

He looked uncomfortable. "Either, now you mention it. Forget I said anything." He loped off, and she settled down to work for a full sixteen seconds before drifting off into reminiscences about her night with Carlton. Her _lover_. Her love. She smiled at the folder in front of her, feeling warm and thrummy and buzzed.

She managed to focus on paperwork and details enough to get through the morning, but as the clock advanced toward the time Lassiter was due to meet her here, so did her agitation. She was very afraid she was going to jump on him as soon as he walked in. She was also a little afraid he wouldn't mind and she would end up getting fired for having sex on the police station floor.

But when he materialized—or so it seemed—in front of her desk a few minutes earlier than she expected, his blue eyes full of love, she instantly felt calmer. "Hey," he said quietly. "Did I tell you how beautiful you are before you left?"

"You may have." She was blushing. "How was your class?"

"I don't remember a thing about it." He seemed cheerful. "Are you ready to go?"

They walked out together, hands brushing so casually from time to time, and Juliet felt as if she were giving off some pink-and-dusky glow, as if some of the light from the world came from how she felt about him.

At the car, she started to get in the passenger side—habit—until he reminded her _she_ was the official, badge-carrying cop, and besides that, had the keys.

"But you hate to let other people drive."

"You're not other people. And besides, it's policy and you know I haven't given up my love of policy." He gave her a grin, and slid his long-legged frame into the passenger seat.

"This feels weird," she admitted, starting the engine.

"Oh, and by the way, when we get to the first red light out of sight of the station, I'm going to kiss the hell out of you."

"No problem." No problem at all, and they were five blocks away when he kept his promise, his mouth warm and insistent and calling to mind everything that happened last night.

"Better. Oh, I forgot to tell you," he added, wiping a trace of her lipstick from his mouth, "I made an appointment to see a therapist next week."

She looked at him in surprise. "Really? That's—that's great. When did you decide?"

"At lunch the other day. I realized that _thinking_ I have a handle on all these changes I'm making doesn't mean I _do_ have a handle on them. I know simply changing my job can't make me... better."

He was right. She commented, "You've always hated therapy."

"Well, mostly I've always hated that a therapist could stop me from doing my job. I always hated that the words of _one_ person—who didn't even _know_ me—could keep me chained to my desk. I hated the idea that I couldn't do it all myself, that it would take another person to decide I was well, or competent, or functional." He sighed, exasperated. "The truth is, I've been in a few sessions where I really did get something out of it, some insight, or some tool to help me. And I want this to work, Juliet. Not just me, but you and me. I want what I'm doing to be something which _can_ be done, and I want to do it for my future. And yours." He pulled her hand from the steering wheel and held it tight. "If I'm going to be someone you can love, someone you want to stand by, I need to know I'm..." He trailed off. "I don't know. Worth it?"

"Carlton, you've _always_ been worth it."

He smiled. "I want to be worth more."

Juliet squeezed his hand. "You can't be worth more to me than you already are. I meant what I said this morning, and all the other times I only said it in my head. I love you."

He kissed her fingers. "Thank you." He leaned in quickly and kissed her again. "I love _you_ more than I can possibly explain."

"Maybe your therapist can help with that," she suggested cheekily, and drove on.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They started with the houses to the east of the Napoli residence. It was an older neighborhood in terms of the typical age of its residents, so they found a number of people home and not unwilling to have a chat.

They learned Phyllis Napoli had a variety of daytime visitors, but didn't go out much. The lady in the green Victorian said she thought a book club met there monthly, because she'd been once but hadn't returned after an incident with someone's Pomeranian and her new shoes.

The retired teacher in the tan Victorian across the street said some quilters, complete with accoutrements, showed up every few days, but she didn't understand the appeal of sticking a needle into fabric repeatedly.

The retired banker in the blue house next door said he had no idea who the Napolis were.

Phyllis was known to putter in her garden, read on her porch, and receive visitors, but no one seemed to pay much attention to who those visitors were or remembered anything unusual about them. Needless to say, no one remembered anything out of the ordinary about the night Jim Napoli was murdered.

Lassiter leaned on the brick mailbox near the end of the block, contemplating.

"Let's check out the street behind their house," Juliet said. "Sometimes back windows can tell a lot more than the front, you know?"

He agreed, and they crossed over to Esterly, walking down to the end. They would have started at the house directly behind the Napoli's, but there was an elderly couple sitting on the porch at the house next to that one, and why miss an opportunity?

Juliet flashed her badge and a smile. "We're looking into the death of your neighbor Jim Napoli. Could we talk to you a minute?"

"Possibly," said the tiny old lady, whose glass of iced tea was nearly as big as her head. "What's your name, dear?"

"I'm Detective O'Hara, and this is my partner Detective Lassiter." She'd been introducing him as such all along, and no one had demanded to see his badge yet. "You are?"

"The Smithers, Viola and Beau. We've lived here forty-two years and think we might just stay on!" It was clearly an old joke, but her faded blue eyes twinkled as if it were brand new.

Beau Smithers nodded, disturbing his lone strand of hair.

Lassiter nodded back. "Do you spend a lot of time out here on your porch?"

"No, no," Viola trilled. "We mostly sit out back in the mornings to catch the sun, and then we come out front to wait for the mailman, and then we go out back again to watch the gardener."

"And the squirrels," Beau offered meaningfully.

An odd expression crossed Lassiter's face. He was no fan of squirrels.

"Then," Viola continued, "we come out here again to watch everyone coming home from work, though really most everyone around here is retired, but they do have children and grandchildren coming to visit, and we watch them arriving." She beamed. "It's especially nice at the holidays."

"I'm sure. Do you—"

"I don't mean to imply we never go inside, you know. We do have breakfast inside, and lunch and dinner too, though on very nice days we will have an afternoon tea out back, and sometimes we take a stroll down to the end of the block. And sometimes my niece will come and take us out to lunch. And of course we sleep inside, too!"

"I understand," Juliet assured her. She expected Lassiter to be restless, but when she glanced at him, he only seemed bemused. "So you see a lot of the back of the Napoli's house?"

"I suppose you could say that. Phyllis is very nice and she has lovely rosebushes in her yard."

"Got squirrels, too," Beau offered again, just as meaningfully. He addressed Lassiter directly. "You like squirrels?"

Lassiter frowned. "Not even remotely. If it were up to me, they'd all be—"

"_Carlton_," Juliet intervened.

But Beau was smiling. "I like you, son."

She wasn't sure that was good, but she caught Lassiter's grin to the old man. "Does anyone in particular come to visit Mrs. Napoli?"

"Oh, yes. Her friend Pat is there quite often, and Drew. At least I think that's the name. Could be... no, it's Drew. Is it Drew, honey?" She peered over at her husband.

Beau shrugged.

"Do Pat and Drew live around here?" No one else had mentioned a Pat or Drew.

"Well, Pat lives next door, there, at the end. Drew comes from someplace else."

Lassiter inquired politely, "Do you know where that someplace else might be?"

"Oh, no." She smiled brightly. "We don't talk to Drew."

"No?"

"Well, our policy is that if we're not altogether sure of a person's name, we don't associate." She patted her husband's arm. "Beauregard taught me that."

"If you hadn't introduced yourself when you came up, we wouldn't be talking to _you_." It seemed to take a lot out of Beau to say that much.

Juliet thanked them, declined the offer of an iced tea, and went back down the walk with Lassiter, who said, "If Pat next door _is_ a frequent visitor, we can probably get Drew's name from him."

"Her," she countered. "Pat could be either a man or a woman."

"So could Drew."

Pat's house was a big Colonial, and appeared to encompass two lots, both large. A tall fence blocked the view of what lay behind. The name on the mailbox read Fisher, and the doorbell was unexpectedly shaped like an elephant. She was about to press it when they heard a voice behind them.

"Jules! Lassie!"

Both turned: Shawn was jogging up the sidewalk. He took off his sunglasses and stood, hands on hips, as if waiting for some praise for his arrival.

"Spencer," Lassiter asked for what had to be the 8,658th time in his life, "what are you doing here?"

"I should think that was obvious, Lassieface. I'm here to help."

"Well, turn around, bright eyes."

To Juliet, this remark seemed inexplicable until she remembered what he'd said about Shawn and drunken karaoke. Shawn himself seemed taken aback. "Where's Gus?" she asked.

"He dropped me off. He was whining about having to go to some other job."

"You mean the one he gets a steady income and health insurance from?"

Shawn waved that off. "It's just a fad. So who are we talking to now?"

"We," Lassiter said flatly, "are going to talk to the occupants of this house. _You_ are not."

"Oh, but I am." Shawn smiled, and since she wasn't going to shoot him and knew Lassiter wasn't carrying his gun, he was probably right.

She settled for inquiring, "Is that because you're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks?"

Shawn frowned. "Okay, what is it with the Bonnie Tyler—hello!" He looked past them up to the porch, where a woman stood in the open doorway.

She was at least sixty, tanned and weathered—and puzzled. "May I help you all?"

"Mrs. Fisher?" Getting a nod back, Juliet showed her badge and introduced herself and Lassiter, hesitating about Shawn.

However, he smoothly stepped between them and extended his hand to the woman. "Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the SBPD. May we come inside, and do you have any pineapple?"

"We don't need any pineapple," Lassiter interrupted, "but we would like to come in and talk to you about your neighbors, the Napolis."

She was a bit nonplussed, but let them in and led the way to a large bright room furnished in far more styles of wicker than Juliet had known existed. The walls, in contrast, were hung with various dead animals. _Here a deer, there a deer, everywhere a_—Juliet gathered herself.

She noticed Lassiter put himself between her and Shawn when it was time to sit (not that he sat).

"Mrs. Fisher," Lassiter began, "is your husband home, and by any chance is his name Pat?"

"He is home, but I'm Pat. He's Harry."

"He's hairy?" Shawn turned from the mantel, where he'd been adjusting knickknacks. A large rifle hung above, with its twin over by a door leading into the back of the house. "Has he tried Nair For Men? That's a real product, isn't it? It ought to be. There's a guy down at the pier who could really use some."

Pat glanced at him, frowning. "His _name_ is Harry."

"Ah. Sorry. My bad. Carry on." He wandered the room.

Beside her, Lassiter sighed. "Sorry. Anyway, you're a friend of Phyllis Napoli's, correct? We're looking into her husband's death."

"I know. It's so sad. I mean I didn't know you were looking into it, but it's sad. I thought it was a heart attack?"

Juliet said, "Apparently not. Do you know if Phyllis has a friend named Drew?"

"Yes, that's her cousin. Drew—"

"Not Barrymore!" Shawn nearly yelled. "That would be so cool, though."

"Drew Salerno." Mrs. Fisher gave him another glance. "Excuse me, why is he sniffing my wallpaper?"

Lassiter muttered, "Because he's an idiot." More loudly: "Spencer, stop sniffing everything!" To Mrs. Fisher again, he added, "Every now and then he falls apart."

Juliet almost laughed out loud when Shawn spun around and glared at them. "So, you've been friends with Phyllis a long time yourself?"

"Yes, of course. We've been neighbors for twenty years."

"Did you get along with Jim Napoli?" Lassiter asked neutrally. Pretty good, Juliet thought, considering Shawn was now attempting to reach up and touch the antlers of the lowest-hanging deer.

"Oh, I suppose so. He wasn't usually home when I would visit." She seemed a touch uncomfortable.

"What about your husband? Did he get along with the Napolis?"

She shrugged. "I guess. Harry's not, um, very... social." Her volume had dropped. "I'm very worried about Phyllis. You don't suspect _her_ of... anything, do you?"

Juliet studied her, and noted she did seem very concerned. She wasn't even reacting to Shawn holding up two candlesticks to his ears while humming something about kiwi. "We're just looking at all the possibilities. Do you think we could talk to your husband?"

"Oh, um, certainly. I'll go find him." She hurried out of the room, and as soon as she was gone, Shawn and Lassiter spoke at the same time.

Shawn said: "It's not her, and enough with the Bonnie Tyler. At the station earlier, Dobson kept calling me bright eyes, too. What is up with that?"

Lassiter, closer to Juliet and more quietly: "Do you remember if Phyllis ever referred to her lover's gender?"

Juliet looked at him sharply.

Shawn came closer, pointing one candlestick at them. "Look around, Lassie. All this macho posturing with the deer and the antlers and the thing and the buffalo and stuff? The kind of man who's into that doesn't like having a pesky husband in the way of his conquest."

"The kind of man who's into that doesn't use _poison_ to get rid of his competition," Lassiter retorted.

They both hushed up (and stood up) when Pat Fisher returned with her husband. He was as tanned and weathered as she was, but probably ten years older. He had an unlit cigar and a scowl. "What's going on?"

"These people are police detectives, and that's—" She paused, helpless to explain Shawn, which sentiment Juliet had often shared. "That's a guy they brought."

"_A guy_?" Shawn protested. "Really?"

"Well, what do they want?" Harry demanded.

"They're asking about Jim's death."

"Who the hell is Jim?"

Pat glared at him. "Phyllis' husband!"

He glared back. "You didn't tell me he died!"

"Harry! Of course I told you!"

Lassiter murmured to Juliet. "Got an answer my question yet?"

Her mind raced through every conversation with Phyllis Napoli, and no, there was no time when she used either the masculine or feminine gender to refer to her lover. None. "Mrs. Fisher," she said instead, "what do you do for a living?"

Pat stared at her, expressionless.

Her husband scowled again. "She's a nurse, though you can't tell when she acts dumb like this."

Lassiter's tone was edgy. "What kind of nursing?"

Pat didn't seem to have heard her husband's insult. "I—I—does that matter? It's all the same, really."

"It's _not_ all the same, really," he said politely. "Pediatrics? Geriatrics?"

"Surgical," Harry barked. "What are you getting at?"

"Mrs. Fisher, I think we need you to come down to the police station with us," Lassiter went on, still calm, because like Juliet, he knew that the question of the murderer's access to succinylcholine had just been answered.

"Hold on now. She may not be that bright but she's my wife and you're not taking her anywhere."

"Like _you're_ that bright," Shawn said as if he weren't a foot shorter than Harry. "Killing Bambi like that. Over and over and over and—"

"Shawn, shut it." Juliet held up her badge to Harry Fisher. "Sir, we are taking your wife in for questioning. It's possibly nothing, but we—"

"The hell you are," he snarled, grabbed Pat by the arm, shoved her out of the room, and in the next second had yanked the rifle out of its rack on the wall. "This is loaded, and you're leaving."

"We are police officers," Juliet said firmly, "and threatening a police officer is a—"

"Don't care!" he bellowed, fired the rifle into the ceiling over Shawn's head, and took off into the depths of the house.

"Son of a bitch," Lassiter breathed, while Shawn hurriedly shook plaster out of his hair. "Call it in," he told her, and went for the other rifle.

"That one's broken," Shawn said. "See, the doohickey is all a-thwack. You don't have your gun?"

"Spencer, I'm on _leave_!"

"So you don't have your other gun either?"

Of all times for Lassiter's new way of life to affect them. Juliet quickly called for backup, told Shawn to stay where he was, knew he would ignore her, and the three of them headed into the unknown.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	11. Chapter 11: Hoarders

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**. . . .  
><strong>**. . .**

The house was a maze. Turned out the front room, airy and wickery, was a 'front' for a couple of hoarders. Every hall was lined with boxes and stacks of papers or clothes or just _things_: from plush stuffed animals to dead stuffed animals; lamps, chairs, toasters; bath towels, radios, breadboxes; old PCs, albums and garden tools.

Shawn tripped over a low-lying broom and went sprawling. "Dammit!"

Up ahead they could hear Harry Fisher shouting about something, and he seemed to be getting angrier.

Lassiter yanked Shawn to his feet and gave him a funny look; he started to speak and Shawn yelled, "If you say 'together we can make it to the end of the line!' I _will_ bitch-slap you!"

Lassiter hissed, "Be quiet!" and caught up with Juliet, who was trying to keep low and guess where their target was. All the crap in the hallway muffled noises, distorted any real impression about where the Fishers were, whether they were even together, and exactly how insane Harry was.

"How did you know?" she whispered to him. "That Pat was the lover?"

"Because no way was it Harry. And the way she asked if Phyllis was a suspect? She looked guilty. Dammit, I need my Glock!"

"Look around," she said grimly. "There's probably one buried here somewhere." She straightened up, hearing Shawn behind them. "We have to figure out where they are and whether Pat is on his side or not."

Shawn was on his feet, and he advanced slightly before them. "The hall goes to the right and there are three doors, two south, one straight ahead."

"Get back, Spencer. You're not bulletproof."

"Neither are you, Lassie-frass." Still, he knew enough to let Juliet go ahead. "So what's the story here anyway? You think this woman killed the professor to be with his widow?"

"Maybe she just wanted out of this creepy house," Juliet suggested. "Now _stop_ _talking_." She paused before the first door, motioning the others to be silent.

But the sounds came from upstairs, and among them was Pat clearly saying, "Harry, no!"

The three of them scrambled to find a staircase; Lassiter was the first one to get there. "Carlton!" Juliet yelled, "you have to let me lead!"

"Habit," he said hastily, "but if you want to loan me your gun, I'll take it."

"Forget it." As the only active-duty cop on the premises, she wasn't letting anyone else take command of this situation. The paperwork to justify it _alone_ would kill her.

She went up the stairs—also lined with crap; here it was socks and books and vases—and the men followed. Harry's shouts were louder, accompanied by other sounds, as if he were throwing things around (she hoped none of them included Pat) or knocking them over. Footsteps, too. He was in a hurry.

Pat's voice came again, this time fainter. Was she further away, or merely weaker? Had he hurt her?

"The attic," Shawn urged. "Find a staircase to the attic."

"It won't be a staircase." Lassiter looked up at the ceiling of the second floor hallway and was the first to spot the rope dangling from the trapdoor. He yanked it down, Juliet ready to shoot anything which came out of the opening, and from above they heard Harry clearly.

"You come up that ladder and I'll blow your head off. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"Harry, stop it!" The sound which followed was a crash and a thud, but then Harry cursed, and Pat could be heard to gasp.

"Dammit, woman, why'd you go and do that!"

After a few moments of silence from above, Juliet yelled, "Drop your weapon! Release your wife and come down here or I _will_ come up there after you!"

In response, an old oscillating fan dropped down from the opening, careening off the trap door and striking the wall before breaking into pieces.

"Seriously? A fan?" Lassiter snapped.

The next thing to come out was a billiard ball, and it hit Juliet in the leg. "Dammit! Stop that crap!" she yelled.

Then, of all things, a karaoke machine. It smashed onto the floor and Juliet couldn't help it; she laughed. This was all so crazy. "Sorry, Shawn," she managed.

Shawn was puzzled. "What? _What?_ Why is no one making sense to me today?"

Before anyone could answer—and that included Lassiter, who was grinning at the smashed machine—he said with excitement, "Never mind—I'll distract Harry. Listen close!" He took off down the hallway to the opposite end of the house, and Juliet had no idea what he was doing but it was pointless to try to stop him.

Now a plate came whizzing down from the attic and shattered against the ladder; a broken slice struck Lassiter's forehead and drew blood. He cursed.

"You okay?" she asked anxiously as he wiped blood on his sleeve.

"I was hurt worse at Starbuck's this morning," he scoffed. "Paper cuts from sugar packets are a bitch. Plus this woman wearing a _Law & Order: SVU_ t-shirt kept asking if she could kiss it and make it better."

Juliet frowned. "That's _my_ job now." To prove it, and because it made more sense than most anything else right now, she darted in close and kissed him briefly. "More later."

He laughed, and now they heard the noises from the direction Shawn had gone. Upstairs, Harry had heard it too: _sounded_ like something hitting glass, and then it was _clearly_ something hitting glass.

"What the hell?" Harry bellowed. "Don't you break my attic window glass, you moron!"

Too late: glass breaking was a uniquely identifiable sound, and as soon as Harry thundered in that direction, Juliet scrambled up the ladder, Lassiter right behind her.

She caught a glimpse of Harry near the small and now broken window at the west end of the attic just as something flew in and past his head. "Damn you!" Harry yelled.

Which meant Shawn was down in the yard pegging things at the far windows. Good boy, she thought, breathless as she took cover behind yet more haphazard boxes and appliances and piles of aging and dusty rubbish.

Lassiter knocked something askew and Harry realized he'd failed to stop their access, turning back to glare in their general direction.

"Where's Pat?" Juliet shouted.

From the east end came a muffled sound. Pat was alive, and presumably not a threat to them.

But Harry was a threat to Shawn: he raised his rifle and aimed it downward out the window.

"Not a good idea!" Lassiter said loudly. "Cops are on the way!"

Harry fired anyway, and then reloaded rapidly and fired toward the trapdoor access. A box exploded near Juliet's head, covering her in bits of paper and dust.

Sounds came from downstairs now—Shawn back inside? —and Lassiter was moving behind her, whispering about trying to get to Pat. She whispered back for him to stay put, but Lassiter was as likely to listen to her in this setting as Shawn would be. Damn her for having stubborn men in her life.

Harry disappeared behind a partition. It was at least six feet long, and stood next to boxes stacked higher, albeit irregularly, than his height. That stack ran the length of the attic's width. It meant that if he moved quietly, he and his rifle could be anywhere in a twenty-foot long area, and left Juliet exposed from the west assuming he could see her where she crouched. And she had to assume he could.

Inching in the direction Lassiter had headed, if only to put more boxes between her and Harry, she was able to get behind enough hoarded junk to feel a little more secure.

"Carlton, stop!" she whispered furiously. He was about to make the leap to the corner where Pat might be, and it would mean being visible to Harry for a good ten feet.

He paused, studied her location, and clearly was doing the math.

Juliet called out, "Harry! What did you do to Pat?"

Harry bellowed, "Never you mind about Pat! She's my wife! She's my responsibility! And you are STILL IN MY HOUSE!"

"You're shooting at police officers!" Lassiter shouted back. "We call that probable cause!"

"I wasn't shooting before you came in!"

"We were invited in!" Juliet tried to pinpoint where Harry stood but it was impossible to be sure.

"We're like vampires!" Shawn joined in, on the trap door ladder, head below floor level. "Once you invite us in and start shooting at us, we don't leave!"

"I didn't start shooting until I threw you out! And who the hell are _you_?" *CRACK* went the rifle, splintering the edge of the trap door opening, and Shawn yelped like a little girl.

Of course, Juliet thought, that wasn't an unreasonable response, and more importantly, she had a better idea of Harry's position. "Get down, bright eyes!" she snapped, and heard Shawn's hiss of annoyance.

Lassiter inched closer to the gap, and Shawn, defying all logic, climbed rapidly up the ladder and threw himself into the cluttered space behind Juliet. Appropriately, this motion combined with the rifle's next *CRACK* caused a towering pile of rugs to collapse on him, knocking him sideways and effectively pinning him in place. _Good_, she thought, _that'll keep him grounded_.

Now she just had to worry about Lassiter.

Distraction time. "Harry! Why are you doing this? We only want to talk to your wife."

"Hell no! It won't just be a talk! You don't need three people just to talk to one woman!"

"The third person doesn't count!"

"Thanks a lot, Jules!" Shawn yelled from under the rugs.

"This is about the murder of Jim Napoli," Lassiter tried. "It has nothing to do with you, or it didn't until you started shooting."

"I barely know who that is!"

"Then why _in the hell_ are you shooting?" Lassiter yelled. "Are you insane?"

*CRACK* went the rifle, and somewhere above Juliet, a dark and dusty painting of a bowl of fruit took a major hit.

"Call me insane again and you'll be eating THAT!"

"Crap on a cracker," muttered Lassiter. More loudly, he added, "It's just a conversation! If Pat didn't kill Napoli, she gets to come back home and clean your house while you sit in jail for attempted murder of a police officer!"

"And a psychic!" Shawn interjected, still muffled.

"Pat didn't kill anyone and I should shoot you for saying so!"

From Pat's dark corner came her wavering voice. "Actually, Harry, I meant to tell you about that."

*CRACK* and there went a dressmaker's mannequin. Shot in the heart, it tumbled to the floor and kicked up a cloud of dust.

"Harsh," Lassiter commented, and Juliet didn't know whether to laugh or shoot.

"I'm sorry, Harry! I just needed some peace! Jim wanted Phyllis to sell the house and move to a condo and I couldn't let her go!"

Unimpressed, Harry roared, "What the hell do you need peace for?"

Pat made some mumbling sound of despair.

"Enough!" Lassiter's tone was of the cut-through-titanium variety. Juliet had sort of missed that the past two months. "You will drop that rifle and show yourself and you will do it right now!"

Harry, from a different position behind his wall, shot directly toward Lassiter, and Juliet had had enough: she rose and fired her weapon at the spot where Harry ought to be. Noise and dust, but no hit. _Crap, crap, crap!_

Lassiter muttered, "Stay back. Then shoot as soon as I go and you can see him."

In the next half second she envisioned what was going to happen: he was going to make himself visible, Harry would reveal himself long enough to shoot, and while Lassiter was going down, she would have her chance to take Harry out.

"He'll shoot you first, Carlton!"

"Not if you're fast enough." He grinned, but she wasn't amused.

Lassiter was willing to take this risk for her, and at relatively close range, with Fisher's big-ass rifle, there was no doubt in her mind it could well be fatal.

He added urgently, "If it's a bust, tell Grenovich it was worth it. I love you, Juliet." He started to get up.

Well, screw _that_.

Juliet shoved at Lassiter hard, sending him off balance and causing some boxes to tumble forward, but effectively keeping him out of Harry's line of sight.

Harry fired wildly at the boxes, exposing his exact position, and that's when she stood up and shot the homicidal son of a bitch. He went down hard, rifle falling away, more boxes and stacks of paper and fabric tumbling all around him.

She glared down at Lassiter. "I love you too, but you'll have to tell Grenovich your own damn self." She stomped across the room to retrieve and cuff Harry Fisher.

Muffled by the rugs which held him down, Shawn yelled, "Well, that explains everything except Bonnie Tyler!"

**. . . .**  
><strong>. . .<strong>


	12. Chapter 12: The Big Finale

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**[The finale – rated M for a little smut.]**

. . . .

. . .

It was all over but the paperwork.

Harry Fisher had been taken off in an ambulance—Juliet's shot clipped him in the shoulder and he would be fine except for his temperament (which would most likely not improve during incarceration)—and Pat Fisher was arrested in relatively good health. She had tried to escape Harry in the attic and he'd accidentally back-handed her, which had left her too dizzy and disoriented to be a danger to anyone.

Shawn had been pulled out from under the rugs, complaining the whole time, and Juliet had personally applied a small bandage to Lassiter's forehead while the EMTs were busy. She whispered to him that he could have gotten killed with his stunt up in the attic and she wasn't going to tolerate that crap, and hidden behind the open ambulance door (meaning, while Shawn had his back turned, pontificating to the newly-arrived cops about his considerable assistance during the arrest), he pulled her to him and kissed her hard. Not long enough, but there was time for that later.

Harry, Pat explained down at the station, was a seriously grumpy guy who mostly had no use for her but even less use for anyone interfering with his sense of how things should be, and how things should be pretty much never included cops or men who sniffed his wallpaper.

She had become 'close' to Phyllis—that was her wording, never more specific than that—a few years earlier and could not bear the thought of Jim Napoli's plan to move across town to a condo nearer the university. Harry could barely stand to let Pat go to work, so she knew he'd never allow her to visit Phyllis.

She didn't deny anything, waived her right to an attorney, and admitted to stealing enough succinylcholine from the hospital to do the job on Jim. Harry was away acquiring more junk, Phyllis had fallen asleep on the sofa in her sewing room—one of the few places Harry's hoarding hadn't touched—and Pat snuck over to the Napoli house. Jim let her in when she explained Phyllis wasn't feeling well, and while he looked for their doctor's phone number, she jabbed him in the thigh and managed to get him over to his _un_easy chair to die.

Terribly ashamed, and tearful, Pat also admitted her chief regret was that going to jail meant not seeing Phyllis as much; but on the _upside_, she'd be away from Harry.

Her phone call wasn't to a lawyer; it was to Phyllis. Juliet wasn't surprised when Phyllis turned up later hoping to post bail.

Lassiter gave his statement and somehow a moderately accurate one was wrested from Shawn, who had yet to make any comment about what he overheard in the attic.

But Shawn was known neither for patience nor subtlety. He came up to Juliet's desk while Lassiter was in Vick's office, pulled up a chair and asked outright, "So. How long have I been flirting with you in vain?"

She was tired. "Pretty much from the start, Shawn." When he looked wounded, she hastily amended her answer. "I'm sorry. You know I don't really mean that. You and I just always had bad timing, that's all."

"Uh-huh. So how long have you and Lassie-face been a united front?"

_We've always been a united front_, she thought. "Since he went on leave. It's complicated, but the truth is, it was a long time coming."

Shawn studied her. "Yeah. Okay, I see that. Partners get close."

"Like you and Gus," she said lightly. She didn't want him to be hurt by this. She didn't want to be arrogant enough to think he would be, either.

"Not funny, Jules." He was still looking at her curiously. "Lassie can make you happy?"

Juliet smiled slowly, and answered from her heart. "He _is_ making me happy."

"No doubts?"

"None."

He nodded. "I missed a lot of cues, didn't I."

"You saw what you wanted to see. And we were being discreet while we figured things out."

"And you figured out you love him?"

Juliet nodded. "I did. I do."

"Then… then I'm okay with that, Jules." He held out his hand, and when she took it, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. "I know he'll take care of you. More than anyone else on the planet, Lassie will take care of you."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Shawn got up. "Of course, without a Glock at his side I dunno how macho he is anymore. After all, _I _had to save you up in the attic."

Gus appeared and said, "Even I don't believe that, Shawn."

"You never believe anything, Gus."

"Actually, Shawn did help by distracting Harry enough to let us get into the attic."

Gus gave her a look. "And after that?"

She shrugged. "He was taken out by a stack of carpets."

Shawn protested, "I was nearly smothered! I was shot at—twice! If it hadn't been for me, you—oh, hell. Just take me home, Gus. I think I have a carpet beetle problem."

Before Gus could answer, McNab and two other officers came to Juliet's desk and looked expectantly at Shawn.

"Hey, guys," he said uncertainly. "What's up?"

"We were wondering if you'd give us a critique," McNab said hopefully.

"A critique?"

"Yeah, we're thinking about activities for the office picnic on the fourth of July and wondered if you'd let us know how we sound."

"How you sound," Shawn repeated.

Lassiter strolled out of Vick's office and joined the three other men. "Let's go, boys."

And they sang. Oh, how they sang.

"_Turn around; every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming around… turn around; every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears_…"

Juliet burst out laughing, delighted beyond belief both by how good they sounded and how stunned Shawn was, and soon there was quite an audience, including Chief Vick, and three or four other cops joined the choir as well, along with Gus, who provided some excellent harmony. She couldn't believe Lassiter was singing with them, and was utterly charmed that he'd obviously been part of setting it up.

Shawn finally found his ability to speak, but it was only to yell, "All damn day! All damn day it's been this song! What in the hell is this about?"

Chief Vick intervened despite her own obvious amusement. "Everyone, get back to work please." As they dispersed, she explained to Shawn, "I've been told you put on quite a show last night, Mr. Spencer."

"I did? Where? Where in the hell did _I_ put on a show?"

Gus and Lassiter glanced at each other, trying not to laugh. Gus said, "Shawn. That bar we went to. Circles? You don't remember?"

Shawn was exasperation personified. "Gus. If I could remember anything about last night, I would have cut _this_ performance off after the first verse." He gestured at Lassiter. "_He_ can't even carry a tune."

Lassiter grinned. "Oh, I think a sober me singing outclasses a drunken you singing any day."

Gus nodded. "It's true. You were pretty bad, Shawn. But damn if you didn't have a death grip on that microphone."

"But—wait. Is this why I woke up fully dressed in my shower?"

"I wasn't about to undress you. I have my limits."

"That's fair."

Lassiter peered at Shawn. "Your eyes—they _are_ kind of bright." His smile was only barely in check.

"Oh, God." Shawn turned away. "Take me home, Gus. For the love of God, just take me home."

There was a round of applause as he walked down the hall, and bless his heart, he couldn't even enjoy it.

Lassiter sat down in the chair Shawn had vacated. "The Chief and I think you need to take off work early."

Vick was smiling benevolently. "You have plenty of leave and Lassiter has assured me you would benefit from some down time. See you Monday, O'Hara—and if you could, try to talk him into coming back to work, okay?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter followed her home in his car, with a side trip to pick up an early dinner, but when she met him at the door, she took the bags without a word, shoved them in the fridge and started undressing him. Because, duh.

"Oh, hi," he murmured as she pushed his jacket off his shoulders.

"Hi." She kissed him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He started unbuttoning hers, and they advanced toward the stairs.

After tugging his shirt out of his pants, she allowed him to slide her blouse off, and by then they were four steps up.

His shirt landed on the sixth step, his belt on the eighth.

Her bra on the ninth, and then a considerable pause while he investigated her bare breasts with his lips.

Juliet really, really, really needed to be fully naked with him, so she pulled him the rest of the way to the bedroom rapidly, stopping when she saw the bed. It was neatly made—and had not been such that morning. "You did this?"

He hesitated. "I found clean sheets in the closet. Is that okay?"

Juliet pressed her bare torso to his and kissed him seductively. "Yes," she whispered. "Now let's mess them up."

Turned out there was still a lot left from last night. A lot of passion. A lot of heat. A lot of pleasure. Juliet learned every inch of his body—every glorious hard inch—and was driven mad by his exploration of every soft, yielding inch of hers. She hadn't known she could make sounds of pleasure that intense. She hadn't known she could even _feel_ pleasure that intense.

Only one pillow and the bottom sheet remained on the bed when they were finally—for the time being—spent. They lay side by side on their backs in the falling light, hands clasped.

"Yeah," Lassiter said, still breathing hard, "that was pretty good."

Juliet laughed. "I'd smack you but my arm is dead."

"Don't bother. I'm about to dissolve into ash." He managed to roll over, and scooped her damp body close. "You're so damn beautiful."

"So are you."

"Not me."

"It's in your eyes."

"I'm a mess, O'Hara."

"You're a work in progress, _Lassiter_."

"I'm yours," he countered simply, and silenced her with a fierce kiss, His mouth was hot and sexy and his hands were everywhere and all she could do was feel, and respond. He pulled back, ragged, and she touched his face, his temple, his hair. "I liked working with you today. I liked being in the field again."

"Even without your Glock?"

"Even without."

"Even with Shawn interfering?"

He shrugged. "That's nothing new." He nuzzled her deliciously, entangling his legs with hers.

"True. Any chance you'll come back to work?" She didn't know why she said it.

He lay half on her, his hands in her hair, staring down at her as if he'd never really seen her before.

"What is it?" she asked. Breathed.

"You... this is real, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That you love me."

"Yes." She reached up and kissed his open mouth. "I love you."

For a few seconds he hungrily returned the kiss, then withdrew. "But I can't go back, Juliet. I don't want to go back. Please understand that I _would_. I would do it for _you_, if you asked me. But I don't _want_ to go back to that anger, to that need to be the best, to never fail. I don't want to be like that again."

Her blue eyes locked to his, and she saw he was afraid. "Carlton, you won't be like that again. You won't be because now you know you don't have to be, and I will do everything I can to keep you whole. I promise. It's going to be okay."

"How can you be sure?"

She kissed him again, desperate to make him believe. "I'm sure I love you. I'm sure you love me. I'm sure we're a great team and I miss having you at my side out in the field, or even just glaring at me from your desk."

He was silent, searching her face. "I need more time." He kissed her lips, her cheek. "I want more time. I'm asking for more time."

Juliet pushed him onto his back and straddled him, leaning down close, her hands next to his shoulders. "I will give you all the time you need, as long as you're only talking about being a cop, and not about being with me."

His warm hands slipped between them, cupping her breasts, and he smiled. "I will never let you go, Juliet. You'll have to shoot me to get me out of your life." She arched against his hands, and he yanked her closer for a deep and unhurried kiss, moving one hand to stroke her bare back and slide down to the silky curve of her hip.

"There will be no shooting," she murmured against his jaw. "There will be love, and sex, and more love and sex, but there will be no shooting."

"Tell me more about the sex," he suggested.

"How about I show you instead?"

"Mmmmmmm..." was all he managed before she began the demonstration. She started with touches to his chest and arms, then lower on his stomach, then lower still, and he made different sounds, those of intense pleasure. She loved him up and down, tenderly and with passion and need, and whispered things to him which made his ears go pink, but when he rolled her onto her back and took over, she gave herself up to his driving hunger and the rest didn't matter. The rest faded away.

There was just Carlton, and Juliet, and the night, and love, and the future, and the only certain thing about that future was they were going there together.

But what more did either need to know?

He whispered that he'd given her his heart after all. She whispered back that he had hers.

Most likely, Daniel Grenovich would have been very proud of himself.

**. . . .**

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FINIS

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_[I think maybe there's a sequel in here somewhere… what do __**you**__ think?]_


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